Botany
by LondonBelow
Summary: The sons of Denethor find their separate paths and learn to walk them. Chapter Nine: Faramir returns home from Rohan.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

Author's note: This story is set in the year 2993 of the Third Age; it is my understanding that relations between Rohan and Gondor were friendly at that time. Also, I realize that many names in this story lack accentsthat is due to a malfunction of my computer.

At a particular time of day, the late and heavily dragging hours of the afternoon till the light's fading to dusk, shafts of light glistened through the tall library windows, casting long rectangles onto the floor. Every speck of dust floating lazily about on migrating currents of air caught the light and held it for a while. This light tattooed pink patterns onto the pale cheeks of a young boy, who sat on a cushion he had moved to the floor, curled around himself like a small puppy.

The boy knew the best nooks of the library. He knew which corners would be warmed and illuminated at dawn, noon and dusk and frequented all of these places. Heavy books resting in his lap, the boy loved to pore over pages upon pages of adventures in history and sciences. Storybooks, too, he enjoyed, but less as he grew, for who needed fiction when worlds of true adventure awaited? Joys to the youth were books about animals and plants. He knew the contents of many volumes, though he often needed assistance in reaching these tomes. For all his knowledge, Faramir of Gondor was a small boy of only ten years.

Something nagged at Faramir's mind. He raised his eyes and, deciding that he would remember anything important, returned to the page. Words swam before him. "By Elbereth," Faramir gasped, "what hour is it?"

_Past sunset,_ he observed, _to judge by the shadows._

Suddenly he did remember what task early slipped his mind, and Faramir smacked himself on the forehead, a strange habit he had acquired some years ago. _The King of Rohan! Drat it all!_ Now that he considered it, Faramir remembered hearing hoofbeats earlier that day, and that morning his brother had reminded him, "You must not be late tonight, Faramir! I cannot staunch Father's anger if you lose yourself in another book when we are to dine with the King of Rohan."

Boromir knew precisely what would happen, and his prediction came to pass! Faramir silently cursed his absent-mindedness as he flew down the corridor, pulling the ties from his hair and shaking out the girlish braids he wore to keep his vision clear when reading. Enough trouble he would catch from this incident without appearing effeminate!

Faramir always appeared effeminate. His lashes were long, his skin pale, and how could he help having beautiful raven hair? He never did a thing to care for it, save washing regularly! Training in archery gave Faramir muscle, but unlike his brother whose muscle forced the area of his skin to expand, Faramir's muscle wound tightly around his bones, leaving him thin as an arrow. Looking down at his slender, nimble fingers, Faramir thought wryly of his brother's comment: "You spend so long at your books, Faramir, that had you been born a woman… how much easier our lives would be!"

Weighing his options, Faramir decided to join the diners late at supper instead of staying away. He knew hours of writing lines awaited him following the meal, and deemed his situation better on a full stomach than any empty one.

"You are late," Denethor observed, regarding his youngest child with steely grey eyes. He was not a cruel man but neither particularly kindthough fair, with his favor weighed more heavily on punishment than forgiveness.

"Yes, sir... I know I am, Father. I apologize." Faramir bowed politely first to his father, then to the visiting King. Denethor motioned to Faramir's accustomed seat, and with another red-faced bow Faramir sat.

Boromir nudged his little brother with the toe of his boot; Faramir grinned ever so slightly. _You were right, Brother,_ Faramir thought, seeing Boromir's gloating grin in his head.

Able to slip unnoticed from the conversation, Faramir observed Theoden King of Rohan. A man of stern features, Theoden was aged but not old. He wore his noble blood in his square shoulders, his certain eyes and his smile, not a smile as much as simply a lightness about his mouth, as though he knew the weight of the world but could not be conquered by it. Faramir respected Theoden immediately.

Theodred, Theoden's son, sat beside his father, looking for all the world like a mirror of opposites. Theodred was young to Theoden's many years, sullen to his father's joy, and to the King's noble and assured gaze was an opposite yet similar look of pride in the prince's eyes.

_Ox-eye daisies,_ Faramir thought, _grow up to one meter in height._ This he learned from the book which drew him from his duties. _They flower white petals around a sun-like center..._ "Up to twenty millimeters diameter…"

"What's that?"

Faramir's eyes widened at the words. He slowly met the gaze of Theoden King and, much to the surprise of Faramir, Theoden smiled. "Did I speak aloud?" Faramir asked quietly.

Theoden nodded, "You did. What, Lord Faramir of Gondor" he said this without scorn "grows up to twenty millimetersthat was the numberin diameter?"

_Ooh, now I will catch it!_ If only he had been reading of warriors, that might please his father more than feminine subjects. "The ox-eye daisy, sir," Faramir answered quietly.

"Indeed? I never knew that. Do you study botany?"

Faramir decided that he liked the King. "No, sir," he answered, "I do not even know that word."

Theoden, enjoying this conversation very much, explained the meaning of the word. Faramir smiled and said that he had studied botanybotany, botany, the boy mutteredearlier that day, and for this reason had been late. "Ah, then it is all well," Theoden said, "for if a ruling man should be all timely and without knowledge, he should not be a wise or strong ruler."

"Is there a word," Faramir asked, beginning to believe that Theoden knew everything, "for using…botany…for healing? Marigolds for wounds and lilies for nervousness and the like?"

* * *

Later that night as Faramir raised his hand to knock on the door, his fingers were cramped from writing lines and his bottom ached. He repeated in his mind_, I will perform the duties of the son of the Steward._ Writing this out five hundred times had certainly burned the phrase onto Faramir's mind. "Boromir," he called aloud, "open the door, it's only me."

Within, Boromir looked to his comrade Theodred and sighed. "I am sorry about my brother," Boromir said, for the first time feeling embarrassed about Faramir's strangeness.

"It's quite all right," Theodred answered. "My cousin Eomer is only two years oldyour Faramir reminds me very much of my Eomer."

Boromir admitted Faramir, asking him, "What do you want?"

"Only your company," Faramir answered. He shuffled into the room. Seeing Theodred, Faramir bowed politely.

"You needn't do that," Theodred said. "No one will know the difference, and I am never overly concerned with formalities. Have you been studying your flowers? You and my father seemed quite interested in plants."

Faramir blushed. "I was writing lines," he admitted, "because I was late."

Boromir read the truth in his little brother's red-rimmed eyes, and his heart softened. "Oh, he didn't!"

Faramir nodded.

"The beast!" Boromir muttered. "My poor Bear!" He called Faramir by his childhood named, hugged his brother and kissed him, forgetting the presence of Theodred. "And you were hardly ten minutes late!"

"What happened?" Theodred asked. Upon being told, he remarked in disbelief, "He _spanked_ you? But that's barbaric!"

Faramir grimaced. "Not in Gondor," he answered. "Besides, the hurt is dulled the next morning and gone within the week, usually within a day or two."

"Fara hasn't a drunkard's sense when he's reading and grows forgetful," Boromir explained. "Father's patience in this matter wears thin."

Not caring to keep the conversation going, Faramir leapt onto Boromir's bed and sat with his legs crossed, the soles of his feet pointed heavenwards, causing Theodred to goggle. "What's Rohan like?" Faramir asked.

"Well, for one thing, we call it the Riddermark. Only in Gondor is the land known as Rohan."

Theodred only just began this explanation when Faramir interrupted, "Oh, yes, I remember; and it was first called Calenardhon when it was a part of Gondor" he clapped a hand over his mouth.

Theodred laughed. "You already know the lot!" he exclaimed.

Faramir, usually rather quiet, displayed his chatterbox side. "But you probably know tons about horses," he protested, "and I'm awful with them!"

"Are you now?" Theodred grinned, mischief gleaming in his eyes.

Boromir nodded. "Faramir hates riding."

"The horses frighten me," Faramir said defensively. "Father's always angry; he thinks I ought to be able to ride by this age because Boromir took well to horses. Most times it takes Father or Boromir to cajole me into entering a tack room!"

Theodred grinned all the more broadly. "Tell me," he implored, "is there any way to sneak out of this city after dark?" His mind raced with thoughts of a midnight gallop around the city wall.

Boromir shook his head. "With seven gates to pass through and our fathers both awake into the night revising treaties? I should think not, Theodred!"

Disappointment clouded the boy's features, but not for long. "I have yet another ingenious plan," he announced, and with quick and quiet words detailed his idea to the brothers, whose grey eyes grew wider by the second.

Only Faramir remained uncertain of this mischief, but without conviction did he doubt it. Boromir and Theodred prodded and wheedled the younger boy the way down to the stable, through the tack room, and up onto the horse. "Why can neither of you do this chore?" Faramir asked, quivering in fear as the older boys blotted dark polish onto his face.

"Because," Boromir answered, "you hate to ride, so none will suspect you."

"Do, Faramir, please, it will be ever so comical!" Theodred begged.

Desperate for acceptance, Faramir grudgingly obeyed.

* * *

"What was that?"

Theoden and Denethor looked up from the article before them, one by which either country would aid the other in times of war, and blue eyes met grey ones. Neither knew precisely what the cry had been, but as one they raced to the window of Denethor's study. Looking upon the darkened city, they were just able to make out the form of a black-cloaked rider atop a black horse galloping across the seventh of the city walls.

Theoden recognized the nature of this action as Denethor recognized the build of the rider. At the same moment the leaders spoke:

"Theodred."

"Boromir."

* * *

"You shouted like an orc-horn, Faramir, you were wonderful!" Theodred cried, helping the younger boy off the tall horse.

Faramir stumbled, tore from Theodred's grasp and ran to his brother. Boromir held Faramir, realizing that the little one was crying. "There, it's all right, Fara! Nothing to cry about," Boromir assured him.

"Don't say that!" Faramir said, pounding his fists against Boromir's chest. "I hate you! You're so mean! I didn't want to go and you said go and I did! You ride the horse," he wailed. "You do it! I hate you!"

"Stop that." Boromir caught his brother's wrists in one hand, and struggle though Faramir might he had not the strength to break free. "Faramir, you are embarrassing me," Boromir hissed.

Understanding his position then, hating Boromir for treating him like a plaything and hating himself for allowing it, Faramir stopped crying and wiped his nose on his sleeve, not having a kerchief handy. Remembering the hateful black polish staining his face, Faramir swiped furiously at himself.

Theodred took pity on the young fellow's fear and pain, recollecting of a sudden that Faramir had been spanked for tardiness and was in pain before riding, and he apologized. "I am sorry, Faramir! This ploy was mine and I should not have forced you into it."

"But you did!" Faramir answered. "You made me do it, and now I will be in even more trouble. You are terrible, Theodred of Rohan, simply awful!"

"Faramir!"

That sharp, clipped voice drew the attentions of the three boys, who looked to the entryway where their fathers stood. Denethor, who had spoken earlier, said in an ominously calm tone, "You will apologize to our guest. Then you and your brother will return to my study."

Swallowing hard, Faramir squeaked, "Yes, Father."

* * *

Boromir grimaced. "I am not treating you as an expression of my anger," Denethor had said. "Do not think I enjoy this, for I do not. You must understand the wrongs of your actions. Your play alarmed the guardsmen and frightened that horse. You have brought injury to the reputation of your family."

"It was only in fun," Boromir had argued, while Faramir had remained quiet.

Now neither spoke as Denethor's lecture stretched forward. "…either of you have somehow gained _this_ poorly earned ideal, Gondor is not so strong she can afford to lose her allies, Rohan more than any other! Why must you cast this shameful reflection upon her before Theoden King?" Faramir lost his nerve. Though Boromir stood by in silent deafness, every word his father spoke punctured the dams of Faramir's defenses. Now he broke. Tears streaked through the black polish not completely washed from his cheeks.

"Stop that, Faramir. I will be moved by no play."

But Faramir was not pretending! He was in pain, his legs only just stopped shaking from sheer terror, and the disappointment weighed heavily on his heart. If he did not weep, he would die. He knew that.

Seeing as much, Boromir wrapped an arm around Faramir and drew him close. Faramir muffled his sobs gratefully against his brother. Sufficiently placated, Denethor continued with a glare of death upon his face, "I am quite displeased with both of you." _Truly?_ Boromir thought sarcastically. _You hide it so well. There now, Fara, shh, it's all right. _"You should know better. You do know better! Does the house of Hurin make a point of denying good sense and knowledge? I do not think it so!"

_Hush, child!_ Boromir's thoughts did not pass on to his brother, who sobs grew desperate and climbed to a painful volume.

"Faramir!" Denethor said, sharply enough that Faramir looked at his father. "Come here, Faramir." Trembling, Faramir obeyed. With every step he seemed about to topple, much as a calf taking its first steps. When he stood before his father, Faramir trembled all the worse, expecting a sharp smack. To his surprise, he received no such thing. No! quite the contrary, Denethor held his youngest son tightly.

For a moment Boromir truly hated his father. He wished someone would smack Denethor, teach him a lesson about disciplining his children. _Stop playing his emotions! Faramir will never ride another horse,_ Boromir thought. _He will bear this fear for the rest of his life._ Startled, Boromir realized precisely what Denethor meant to do: he meant not only to chasten Faramir, but to rule him by fear. The Steward knew nothing of his second son, understood nothing of him! Boromir realized incorrectly, but it was a view he would hold in a vicegrip for some time.

Denethor released Faramir, though with one hand he cupped the child's head. "I didn't want to, Daddy," Faramir sobbed quietly. "I never meant to…"

"I know, my child. I am so sorry," Denethor whispered.

Looking into his father's eyes, Faramir knew that this was true. He nodded and swiped a tear from his cheek.

Weakened by Faramir's forced strength and the words he was about to speak, Denethor sank back into his chair. "You may hate me, if you wish to."

"I don't hate you, Father."

Denethor smiled, not a smile of joy but one of sorrowful happiness, as one may smile at the beauty of a butterfly fallen in death to the dirt. "I am truly glad for it."

Faramir returned his father's look with a tight, weak smile, then sank to the floor and, burying his face against his father's knee, sobbed out his anger and pain. Denethor stroked Faramir's hair lovingly. _Faramir forgives him, _Boromir observed, surprised. _Why?_ Seeing the softness in his father's eyes, Boromir wondered that Denethor could possibly love a boy he did not even know.

Theodred, meanwhile, had received a very stern reprimand, a promise of precious little free time until the end of the year, and an instruction to apologize to Denethor and his sons, especially Faramir. "Wait a moment," Theodred said, turning.

"Theodred…" his father warned.

"I will," Theodred promised, "but…" He pulled from his bag a book, his journal, and withdrew a pressed object from between the pages.

His apology to the Steward and the sons of the Steward was brief but honest. Looking to his father and seeing the slightest of nods, Theodred went to Faramir and offered to him the object taken from the book. "I offer this as an apology and a symbol of the kinship between ourselves and our two great countries."

Faramir gently took the dried flower in his hands. "Symbelmyne," he whispered, his tears forgotten. "These…these… Thank you, Theodred of Rohan, very much!"

Theodred smiled at Faramir and at the adults, then surprised everyone by saying, "If you like, Faramir of Gondor, I will teach you to ride and not to fear horses."

Grinning, Faramir answered, "I think I should like that very much."

To be continued

This story was originally intended to be a series of vignettes, however as each relies on the other for clarity I have elected to post a somewhat disjointed multi-chapter story.


	2. Letters

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

* * *

Five and twentieth of March in the year two thousand, nine hundred, four score and eighteen  
  
Theodred,  
  
How do you fare? 'Tis a lovely summer, and I can only hope that in Edoras you feel the mellow heat as calmly as it is felt here in Minas Tirith, like a soft blanket exploring every corner of the city. The childlike inquisitiveness of the heat saps my admiration and I find little interest in other subjects, yet so few of the thousands of tomes in the library discuss heat. Some suggest that with height heat increases, being closer to the sun, yet how can this be when snow gathers atop the mountains?  
  
I fear this letter shall reach you considerably later than I compose it: be not offended, prithee, for again I am serving restitution for various ills my father sees. He sees never the good I do! Two days past I slipped from the archery fields and grimy toil to the Pelennor, where I discovered a patch of wood sage. Contrary to its name, this herb grows most anywhere. Its various uses include cleansing aged sores and, taken internally, it serves as a diuretic.  
  
Father fails to see the advantages in this plant. When summoned before him I knew what wrath I faced. "How does the brother of Boromir leave his weapons for women's daydreams?" demanded the Steward. "Would you abandon your post in a time of warm, leave Gondor undefended? Speak!"  
  
"If you would but look here, Father--" I offered him the herbs, extracted with much care to the preservation of the roots.  
  
"It shames me to see my son present flowers in place of honour!"  
  
"Father, please, it is an herb, not a flower! It has many uses-- disinfectant, and as a diuretic--" After I explained this term to him, he smacked the herb from my hands. For a moment I remained motionless, my blood pounding as drums in my ears, and I looked from my father to the plant upon the ground. I knelt to gather the herb but he hauled me to my feet.  
  
Hardly above a whisper Father informed me, "You will not kneel on the ground like a servant!" I felt blood in every vein in my body throb, then slowly calm as Father released me with such a shove that I stumbled but dared not fall. He snatched up my hands. "Look here, Faramir--dirt ground into every line, beneath the nails. Not the dirt of battle, nay, the dirt of gardening!"  
  
"Father, it is not simply gardening--"  
  
"This dirt profaning your hands profanes my blood in your veins. Until you are purged of this profanity show yourself not in public. No grain of dirt may touch a tome in my library nor the weapon of an archer! You, my boy, may spend one hour a day at archery, and following this will work with swords the remaining hours, am I understood?"  
  
Note that in his anger, he owns everything. The hours of swordplay leave me exhausted and sore, and the bruises of his slap remain upon my fingers. One day I will find him athelas and he will laugh! When my eternal quest ends, my search for this drug--for I do believe the old tales in the cobweb volumes, that athelas, kingsfoil in the common tongue, holds magic. Wait, only wait, until he knows not deadly from black nightshade, and confuses one for the other.  
  
I must end here, for my eyes are sore from this secret candle's light and my hand from swordplay aches. Forgive my complaints, dear friend, for I dare not voice them aloud here!  
  
- Faramir.  
  
1 April, 2998  
  
My dear young friend, when will you write the date in short? There is no call for this "two thousand and nine hundred and" business. You are such a scholar, Faramir!  
  
Eomer, that dear young cousin of whom I so often write, is visiting Meduseld with his mother, my Aunt Theodwyn, and his sister, whose name is Eowyn. Eowyn, whose was born three years ago, is a thing of such small size any would think her capable only of sitting and looking about, wide-eyed. The last is true, for if anything her eyes are the widest blue orbs you ever may hope to see. However, Eowyn enjoys knocking things over (particularly goblets, in especial those filled with wine) and pulling hair.  
  
In this way Eomer is a better relation than I, for while I have lightly slapped her hand more than once (nearly suspected my ears to blister for all Father talked at me, and I only slapped her lightly, the little tattle- rat!) Eomer continues to ease his sister's hold by manipulating the skin over her belly, which sends her into fits of laughter.  
  
When I received your last letter Eomer and Eowyn asked at once from whom I heard--well, perhaps not at once, and only Eowyn had the brass to ask outright. Such is her manner. Someday I hope you meet her, for she is truly a brilliant young woman. In a few years she shall have a spirit to rival your own!  
  
Let no one tell you this is untrue, Faramir. You have such a spirit, that you seek blossoms even where forbidden. Your heart knows what is right and it leads you.  
  
Have you spoken with Boromir of your spat with Denethor? Surely he will be more useful than I am. Enclosed are some flowers and such-like from Rohan. Eomer brought them as an apology after reading your letter without permission.  
  
Love, Theodred  
  
Ten and fifth of April, in the year two thousand, nine hundred, four score and eighteen  
  
Theodred,  
  
I shall write the date as is proper, Theodred of Rohan, as should you!  
  
As for those plants you sent: one is monkshod, a poison used on arrowheads, as I presume you know. The second, called Queen's Delight or Silver Leaf, causes a burning sensation if ingested in large quantities. Neither is very healthy; you had best stay clear of these and keep an eye on your young cousins! They find many poisons! However, dandelion, quite pleasing to the eye, gives forth a healthy milk, which, though best if not ingested, serves many purposes with which I will not bore you.  
  
...I have not been so negligent as to wander from weaponry for flowers again, but cannot keep myself from herbs. Father sent a servant to search my rooms and found the herbs taken from the kitchens which I stored between my bedsheets and he is furious...  
  
Fifteenth May  
  
...caught me reading in the library when I ought to have been at swordplay with Boromir. How terrible my guilt, for my brother now faces our father's wrath as well! Many months will pass before he forgets this incident, of this I am certain. Father has forbidden me from the library for a month...  
  
Twentieth May  
  
..."Must you cast always shame upon me?" he shouted. My heart trembled, but I held my shoulders still. "Stealing away from your proper lessons, in disguise, to wander the Third Circle! Why when I have forbidden you from such crafts must you observe an herbalist? Is it not enough that you are constantly seeing the healers for your clumsiness? You spit on your family repeatedly; where is the respect for your blood?"  
  
"Father, please! If you but allowed me to learn I swear--"  
  
"You are of noble birth, Faramir. You cannot change this and neither can I."  
  
"Father--!"  
  
But do not think ill of him, Theodred, He means well, but he does not understand me. He does not understand about booklearning, for to him this always served as a means...  
  
Thirtieth of May  
  
...Oh, Theodred, it was beautiful! However did you find such a volume? Everything from the leather of the covers to the thread binding the leaves to the ink stole my breath with its beauty! Thank you, my friend, for ever so much. Thank you a thousand times!...  
  
Third of June  
  
He found it, Theodred. Father found the book. To my shame I shed tears when I entered his study to see my beloved herbal upon his desk. Why does he torment me so? Does he do this of some perverse pleasure? I bargained with him, offering to learn bow and sword, even staff and spear and lance if he would but give me an hour a day with the herbal. "It was a gift, Father!" I added, for ignoring a gift is rude.  
  
"A son of Gondor should train with weapons without reward! His duty is to defend his people! Please me with your skills, and this will be returned to you. If you do not progress, if you fail to attend your studies..."  
  
"I will be good, Father. You will be pleased!"  
  
Theodred, I sicken myself. I cannot live here; I will die! Please, I mean not to impose, but perhaps might I visit Rohan, just for a time? Only a week would be enough. I must see open fields; I must read! Already I feel my spirit wither.  
  
Please reply with haste! I beg it!  
  
Yours, Faramir

* * *

To be continued 


	3. Journeys

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

* * *

Denethor son of Echthelion knew whence the letter came. He looked upon the folds of yellow parchment, the deep green sealing wax, and understood that another mysterious letter from Rohan had arrived for his son. Though Faramir never said who wrote these letters, Denethor suspected that Theodred, whose first encounter with Faramir resulted in many tears, wrote the untidy words sometimes visible through the thick sheets.  
  
The Steward turned the letter over in his hands, considering it. He might not tell Faramir...  
  
"Father!"  
  
Before Denethor could completely finish his devious thought an over- enthusiastic young man burst into his study. Sweat stained Faramir's tunic and plastered the garment to his thin body. His face gleamed, pink from exertion. The braids he wore, ever feminine yet useful, hung loosely down his back. On his face he wore an exuberant grin.  
  
"Forgive me, I did not knock," he said. "You summoned me. Here I am."  
  
"This arrived today, bearing your name." Denethor offered the letter to Faramir, eyes cast down. Once he understood his son, but Faramir had become a new person. Practically a man, the boy seemed of two minds: one to sit every moment in study, the other in play and sport. Faramir never played the games of most children his age and hardly touched a sword unless he had some obligation to do so, but he shot his bow, rode any horse in the vicinity, and ran upon the wind. Denethor criticized his son for his dislike of swords, not from a lack of love but because Denethor knew that on the battlefield, enemies too close would not be slain with a bow. Faramir would need a sword.  
  
"Thank you, Father." Faramir took the letter, bowed and turned to leave.  
  
A call from Denethor stayed him. "Faramir." Denethor looked at his youngest son, searching into Faramir's soul as a captain of Ecthelion's once searched Denethor's soul. Yet the older man found nothing, and so he said, "You will take supper with your brother and me tonight?"  
  
Faramir bit his lip. "I had hoped to search the library for an herbal guide- -"  
  
"You are permitted to remain awake and wandering the corridors to your heart's content until an hour to midnight," Denethor stated flatly. "You will join Boromir and me for the meal; this topic is no longer open for discussion."  
  
Sighing inwardly, Faramir conceded. At Denethor's dismissal, Faramir turned from the room. He ran with long strides in the manner of a gazelle and leapt to his own chamber, that private sanctuary where he might collapse onto his bed and read the long-awaited message.  
  
Faramir's hands shook with uncontrollable hope as he slipped his finger between two layers of paper. With held breath he broke loose the green-wax seal, hating to break in half the beautiful horse-head imprinted formed when the wax had been warm and like liquid. No matter how many letters such as this one Faramir received (two hundred fifty-one from this sender in the past five years; he kept them in a wooden box beneath his bed) he walked on air for hours after hearing from his friend Theodred of Rohan.  
  
Today's letter brought even greater prospects of joy, for Faramir had written with an important request only two weeks earlier. Swiftly unfolding the parchment, his eyes dashed from left to right, scanning for the words he wanted. At the bottom of the second page Faramir found what he sought:  
  
"Uncle says you are welcome in Rohan. Come as soon as you can! What fun, o what unstoppable fun we shall have together!"  
  
Faramir threw his arms up for joy! He clutched the letter to his breast and spun on his toes in a circle of sheer euphoria. "I am going to Rohan," he whispered. "Rohan," he said, a little louder. "Rohan!" he practically shouted this time, so happy was he. "Rohan, Rohan, Rohan!" No other words came to mind. "Rohan!"  
  
Dropping the letter onto his pillow, Faramir stretched his legs as he ran through the corridor yet again. Running, Faramir had discovered long ago, brought him much joy. Because he at one time feared horses, somehow the idea grew in his mind that if he could run fast enough no riding would ever be necessary. Faramir knew now, of course, that no man ran with the speed of a horse, but he enjoyed running. He ran through the streets, ducking and dodging every passerby, or over the Pelennor Fields, when permitted--not the entire length of the Pelennor, but what a thing to dream of, such expanses!  
  
Faramir stopped running and leaned upon his knees, panting. 'Where am I?' he wondered. Slowly he raised his eyes, waiting for his breathing to slow from its raised pace. He met the dark, staring orbs of many animals and realized that, without thinking or knowing, he had run to the stable. Ha! Faramir laughed at himself, thinking of the fear this place brought him five years ago.  
  
"Brother! Faramir, I told you, did I not? Did I not say to you, 'Spend a day out of doors and put some color on your skin'? Look at you now, no longer the porcelain doll at study!" Boromir grabbed his brother from behind and spun him through the air. "A colorful porcelain doll," he amended.  
  
"Who ever taught you of porcelain dolls?" Faramir asked, free from his brother's hold. "What warrior taught Boromir of Gondor to play with girls' toys?"  
  
"Be hush, child," Boromir answered haughtily. "A Brigadier of the military forces of Gondor needs not answer to his pipsqueak brother!" Teasing, he shoved Faramir lightly.  
  
"Mayhap not his pipsqueak brother, but the finest archer in Gondor--"  
  
Faramir danced back, being pummeled playfully by his brother. "You are lucky! Ever so lucky I cannot hit you back!"  
  
Boromir grinned. "Because you fear for your life?" he asked.  
  
"No, because now you've earned decent rank Father has hope for you--he says I am to let nothing harm you!"  
  
"Oh, he says so, does he?" Boromir pursued his brother, whacking him ever playfully, until at the back of the stable Faramir tripped and sprawled into a pile of hay. With the malice free victory possible only between brothers, Boromir looked upon Faramir and laughed--until, of course, Faramir lunged forward and pulled his brother into the hay beside him. Both laughed then and briefly they wrestled.  
  
"Tell me why you smile, Brother," insisted Boromir. "I order you to tell me."  
  
Faramir closed his eyes and smiled all the more. "Theodred has written. Boromir, he offered me shelter and permission for visitation to Rohan!"  
  
Now Boromir understood, and he felt his brother's happiness. "Fara, this is wonderful! It's what you have always wanted, to visit Edoras, imagine!"  
  
Guilt drove Faramir to admit the entire truth to his brother. "Boromir, I...I wish to stay a goodly while in Rohan," he admitted.  
  
"Of course, you will have new things to study and a friend to spend every spare moment with. How long do you expect to remain?"  
  
"Boromir...do you recall the tale of King Thengel?"  
  
"You know I do not," Boromir answered, laughing, but no longer sure he felt happiness.  
  
"Thengel fought terribly with his father, King Fengel, and for nearly thirty years Thengel lived here, in Gondor."  
  
"When Grandfather ruled as Steward?" Boromir asked, pleased to at last know something of his brother's tale.  
  
Faramir answered the question absently, "No, great-grandfather Turgon. Boromir, please understand. Father and I...I cannot bear to live in his house any longer. I must be free! You feel this, also, for why else join the military and be so oft away? I do not long for battle. In Rohan I may live and grow in peace."  
  
"Father will not allow it," Boromir replied. "I do not understand why you wish to leave our home, but Father will not have it."  
  
"He needs not know. I will say I go to Rohan for a visit and simply beg extended leave once there. What can he possibly say?" 

..

Faramir tried not to look at the food on his plate, tried not to think of the dead animal he chewed. Instead he sought specific spices and knew them, thought of not only their taste but their healing powers. He listened to the discussion Boromir and Denethor held.  
  
Denethor spoke to Boromir of a young female noble whom the heir courted, and seemed fond enough of. "Have you considered marriage?" Denethor asked, a steel edge to his inquisitive tone.  
  
Ginger cures influenza and soothes the stomach. It is also said to heal certain poisons and to be potent in love spells.  
  
"Perhaps, in a few years' time." Boromir drank deeply to calm his nerves, a habit his brother repeatedly informed him helped nothing.  
  
Barley seeds, burnt and mixed with eggs, remedy burnt flesh. A bag of hot barley seeds eases external pains. Barley grows best in cooler climates.  
  
"You are old enough," Denethor reminded him. "Rumors do fly of aging men without wives."  
  
Tansy purges the body of insects and is said to relieve the pains of childbirth. 'And it makes a lovely tea,' Faramir thought, though he felt the fool with tea as the others took alcohol. 'Spinach clears the throat for air to pass, but as my throat is fine perhaps no harm will come of my not eating this...'  
  
Boromir laughed. "If it is rumors worrying you, Father, fear not! I am seen often enough with her in public."  
  
Pepper rids the mind of depression and fear, and cures physical pain.  
  
"Yet you have made no move toward marriage--"  
  
Juniper cures sprains; smoking this plant rids the body of parasites.  
  
"She is young, only one year older than Faramir--"  
  
Cabbage cures eye disease and failures of the organs--  
  
"Which for all practical purposes--"  
  
Caraway...Faramir could not recall the uses of caraway. "May I be excused?" he asked suddenly.  
  
Boromir and Denethor looked to the younger boy. "You have hardly eaten anything," Boromir observed.  
  
Faramir blushed. "I am not hungry," he said. "Please may I be excused?" he repeated.  
  
"Yes," answered Denethor, "you may." He said this not because he wished Faramir to go but because he knew that, somehow, he must show Boromir that he yet held power. "If you wish to discuss the contents of your letter, find me in my study later."  
  
With as much decorum as possibly Faramir removed himself from his family's presence, thinking over what he words best expressed his wanderlust. 'Father,' he thought, 'in the interest of extending my knowledge and worldly experience, I humbly beg your leave...'

..

"No."  
  
Faramir's face fell. "Why not?" he asked. "An excursion to Rohan...just think what I might learn there."  
  
Denethor looked at his son's expression, not the hard, emotionless exterior he betrayed but the raw pain and anger buried beneath. He never meant to cause Faramir pain: equally, he disliked the idea of his mild son blossoming into an outrageous rogue under the tutelage of Theodred of Rohan. "I said no and I meant it. Who are you to question my reasons?"  
  
"But surely, surely if you are so set against my going you must have some explanation!" Faramir pressed.  
  
'Let him hate me,' Denethor thought, 'but he will never accept the truth.' "Relations with Rohan are poor enough without you disgracing me in the halls of Edoras."  
  
Faramir could hardly believe his ears. His empty hands fluttered at his sides, but he swallowed the anger rising in his chest. "Relations with Rohan are not poor!" he exclaimed. "You lie!"  
  
"See, boy, you cannot control yourself here--"  
  
"Were you only goading me to give yourself a reason? You needed to invent something, didn't you, Father, something to keep me home? Why bother to mask your cruelty?"  
  
"I mask nothing!" Denethor answered, hurt. He roared at his son, eager to finish the conversation, "You will not take that tone with me! Do you forget your place? Need I remind you?"  
  
Taken aback, Faramir fell quiet. "Terribly sorry, sir, I was out of line. Forgive me. I know my place, sir, and you needn't remind me. Thank you, sir." He hated submitting, but could not stop his traitor tongue. At Denethor's signal, Faramir bowed and backed out of the room. In the corridor he shook, and swore, then turned and ran, sweating out anger, fear and pain, his muscles screaming for determination as they yelped in pain.  
  
Denethor hung his head, knowing that his ill treatment of Faramir was uncalled for. How could he possibly understand? How could any child understand his parent's decisions? "I want you here," Denethor whispered, the soft truths he was too proud to tell in public. "I want to be your father, Faramir. I want to see you become a man. Perhaps you think I do not love you: child, I could never love you more."

..

Boromir caught his brother by the shoulders; the impact spun them both round. "Watch yourself, Little Brother!" Boromir chided, his voice lighter than air in his happiness. Seeing his brother's disappointment, Boromir frowned. "Here now, let us not have this for you, Bear." He might have dried Faramir's tears, had Faramir cried any. "I warned you he might say no, Fara, you know how Father is--"  
  
"He hates me!" Faramir interrupted, not minding that Boromir knew the truth. "Father hates me!"  
  
"Now!" exclaimed the elder, rubbing his brother's shoulder to calm him, "that's never the case, Faramir."  
  
"He said it himself, though. Or, as good as," Faramir admitted. "He refused to send me to Rohan--he says I will disgrace him. He all but called me unworthy of his blood!"  
  
Recognizing hysterics closing in on his brother, Boromir said, "Take some rest, Little Brother. You are weary; surely this confuses you. Everything will look better after a good sleep."  
  
Faramir protested, but when Boromir threatened to physically force the younger boy into bed, and out of consciousness if absolutely necessary, Faramir conceded. Boromir took some minutes alone to practice his swordplay, then returned to check on his little brother. The Man of Gondor, hardened and master of his emotions after years of military experience, smiled at his brother without thinking.  
  
"You must be dreaming something wonderful," he said.  
  
The words woke Faramir, though he refrained from showing his state, and through a hazy veil he fought to return to his dreams, wherein he rode side- by-side with Theodred over the plains of Rohan and studied the many volumes in Theoden's library. Coldness swept Faramir, and a cool breeze blew in his dream. Only when he heard a sad, quiet gasp and felt warm fingers touch his ribs did Faramir realize the truth.  
  
Boromir left the room grimly and quietly. Faramir's tears fell in much the same manner.  
  
The room fell into silence. The rustling of sheets like a whisper upon the water sounded as Faramir rose and crouched beside his bed. Scraping noises, and Faramir withdrew a box. He knelt and opened this container. Moving back hundreds of sheets of parchment, letters for the most part, he withdrew a small piece of reflective glass to serve him as a mirror.  
  
Faramir hated to do this, but forced himself. If Boromir must see it, so must I!, he thought, and pulled his tunic over his head. There reflected in the glass Faramir saw first his abdominal muscles; he ran gentle, proud fingers over these, six standing bold against his skin. Then tilting the mirror ever so slightly he saw his ribs, protruding, or perhaps the skin sagging down, and imagined climbing like a ladder. Here too his fingers explored, feeling not fat nor muscle but only bone beneath his fingertips, and he wept, for now Boromir knew. Now that he knew the truth, Boromir would with Denethor conspire to keep Faramir ever in Gondor.  
  
The next morning, with no explanation offered, Faramir found in the library a paper-wrapped parcel with his name printed upon it. Curiously he examined it, but could find no distinguishing marks. He opened the parcel with more caution than interest, and to his surprise found a knife within, sheathed in pliable brown leather.  
  
"What in Arda...?" Faramir drew the knife. The hilt was worn comfortably. The blade, six inches by Faramir's approximation, glittered and sliced cleanly through the air. The blade's tip had a section removed from it in the shape of a sickle. Faramir appreciated the craft, if not its purpose. "What is this?" he wondered aloud.  
  
A response came unlooked-for, "I hoped that in Rohan you might hunt game as well as flowers."  
  
Faramir looked wide-eyed to his father. "Truly?" he asked. "You...you have had a change of thought?"  
  
Denethor smiled, a look which ill-suited him, and opened his arms to his son. Faramir slid the weapon into its sheath, then ran to embrace his father. "Thank you, Father. Thank you so very much! You will not regret this decision--I promise you will not!"  
  
Denethor said nothing in answer, but he did think: 'Valar bless your sentiment, child, but I already do.'  
  
Faramir rode out with a knight and his squire to Rohan. This pair intended to make the journey; Denethor assigned them to protect his son. The squire looked to be near to Faramir in age, and to this man Faramir smiled. He smiled back. "What is you name?" Faramir asked.  
  
"Beregond, my lord!" Beregond drew his mount close to Faramir's and, seeing the other boy glance back at the imposing figure of Minas Tirith, asked, "Do you miss it already, my lord?"  
  
Faramir considered this question, and he prodded deep inside of himself for truth. "No," he answered at last, "I do not think I miss it at all." As he rode from the city, and even from Gondor itself, Faramir kept his heart within his chest. He did not leave this behind.

* * *

To be continued  
  
French Pony: I'm not saying that I portray Denethor as a loving and kindly father, because I don't believe he would have been. However, the second chapter was written entirely from the perspective of a fifteen-year-old child. Naturally he is angry towards his father, and leaves out large chunks of the story. Once Faramir tells the whole story, Denethor becomes more rational. 


	4. Promises

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

* * *

Upon the fifteenth of June in the year 2998 of the Third Age (being the day upon which Faramir received a letter from Theodred of Rohan, attaining permission to sojourn in that country)  
  
Boromir of Gondor shifted slightly, searching for the most comfortable, most stable position possible. Ah--there! He relaxed, having found his 'sweet spot.' Though never as careful as his little brother Faramir, who would tend even the most hateful weapon with care and patience, Boromir had a nasty habit of "forgetting" preparative steps he considered superfluous. In tilting, however, Boromir took great heed. He checked he horse's tack, hooves, then tack again; he hefted his lance and swung it thrice to check the weight; most importantly, he always had to find the perfect position atop the horse before beginning the match.  
  
Though the unusual armor, half chain and half plate, chafed his balance and nerves, Boromir found himself adjusting more and more rapidly to the change from full plate or chain mail. Of late he had taken to wearing a chain shirt beneath his outer clothing. If anyone noticed they kept it to themselves, and Boromir's muscles complained less and less. The first week had been agony, but after a month he hardly noticed the added weight. With that small matter seen to, Boromir focused freely on his love of a good joust. He loved the speed, the adrenaline, the feeling of popping his opponent out of the saddle...He also loved the flying sensation whenever he was unseated, and to some degrees the painful numbness of landing. Boromir liked to win, but he did not mind losing.  
  
The man opposite Boromir raised his lance in salute. Boromir raised his lance in return. He dug his heels into his horse, and both men surged forward, as powerful and unstoppable as the ocean waves. Boromir stopped thinking. He never discussed this with others. Nights in the taverns, Boromir sat quietly nursing his drink and listened to the accounts, boasts and bewailings of knights and squires, and offered nothing. They spoke of an acute knowledge of the target, of thinking, of anticipating the pain. Boromir released himself to the song of the hoofbeats, felt the horse beneath him and the air around him. He knew peace, as only a soldier can know peace. The drumming of hooves grew louder and louder, until like tide on the rocks it slipped away into nothingness. Listening to birdsong and the rustling of leaves, Boromir hardly knew he was positioning his lance and striking until the impact shot up his arm.  
  
Both men landed blows. Boromir's, a square hit, sent his opponent reeling. The other man's lance merely glanced off Boromir's shield. Both men turned their horses and readied for another round. Again the thunder of surf in a windstorm, then the gentle breakers over white sand. A clap of lightning flared within Boromir as a more focused blow shattered his opponent's lance against his shield.  
  
Set off his balance, Boromir had no choice but to focus again as he shifted his weight in the saddle. 'Now,' he asked himself, 'do I want to spar today?' He sized up his opponent. Usually Boromir refrained from identifying his challenger, knowing he would be inclined to play lightly against any squires or young knights. Squinting at the man opposite him, Boromir decided that this could be Lindir or Antlas, both men older than Boromir but neither older than five and twenty years. Shaking his head, Boromir chided himself, 'I do not know every man in Gondor: this may well be a stranger.'  
  
Boromir raised his lance at the same moment as his opponent, then lowered the weapon and charged. A perfect hit sent his opponent flying! Wasting no time on celebration, Boromir leapt to the ground. He handed the reins of his horse to a waiting page. Pleased to see an older page calming the other riderless horse, Boromir drew the practice sword from its scabbard, warily approaching his opponent.  
  
In Gondor, an unseated knight might continue the bout on foot, if he had the strength. Approaching his fallen opponent, Boromir called, "One!" If, by the count of ten, the challenger had not risen, the bout was ended and a victory for Boromir. "Two!" The opponent twitched. He seemed to be considering a spar, equally uncertain. "Three!"  
  
The challenger rose. Boromir grinned as sweat cooled his neck. As their weapons met, Boromir reflected, 'Here is a peace only a soldier may know.'

..  
  
Refusing to be lulled into a false sense of security, Boromir tilted the cup and splashed wine against his lips, swallowing only the tiniest amount of the vile stuff. Not only did he despise the taste, he knew that wine more than ale, rum, mead or beer would crush him after...Boromir knew not how wine was measured. He could hardly imagine a pint of wine, for the scholar's drink reeked of sophistication and the soldier's pint of heavy merriment, vulgarity and occasionally violence. 'Not the stuff of a soldier's world,' he thought, wary of his father's even gaze.  
  
Denethor leaned forward as he spoke to his son, meeting Boromir's eyes all the while. "I understand that this is something of a tender subject, Boromir, but it becomes a more pressing matter with the progression of time. You are twenty years of age, yet you persist in jumping from one woman to another like some sort of toad."  
  
"Father," Boromir could hardly help but protest, amused as he did so, "you yourself were six and forty years of age when you married our mother, mine and Faramir's. How then do you lecture that I, less than half that number, should be wed now?"  
  
"Out of kindness and my learning," Denethor replied, "for by your years I had more interest in books than swords, and see what the men did say about me!" Though his well-schooled faced displayed no emotion, Denethor's heart burned at the memory of the jeers and crude rhymes whispered behind his back, sometimes even before him. What fault of his that he took more interest in books than in looks? True, in his day any woman seeking his courtship was more likely interested in power than his looks, for as a youth Denethor had been not proud of face nor in slight attractive, though in his later years he came to this.  
  
"Give time then," Boromir bargained, "and I will find me a wife. I have yet to meet a woman I adore so." Yet, thinking of his current female counterpart Meril, he could not keep a slight blush and smile from his face. Marrying her might not be so terrible.  
  
"If you cannot choose a woman, perhaps an arranged match would better suit?" Denethor noted the faint horror on his son's face and felt terrible for it, but steeled himself, recalling the taunting voices of his youth. The earliest, when he was no more than nine, rang thusly: 'Denethor, Denethor, steward of the land/Couldn't catch a woman so he settled for a man!' He had not been steward at the time, and the lines didn't quite rhyme, but in spite of this the sting remained with him. "There is a noble in Rohan, one Lady Eowyn I believe--"  
  
Boromir remembered hearing his brother speak of Theodred's cousin. "Lady Eowyn is three years old!" he cried in disgust and protest.  
  
"She will not be so for ever," Denethor observed. "There are others--"  
  
"No. I will not marry a woman chosen by anyone but me."  
  
"What if Faramir were to assist? He well knows your heart, does he not?" Denethor knew his eldest child's weakness.  
  
Boromir leapt to his feet. "Leave Fara out of this matter! He is no pawn of yours, use him not against me!"  
  
Denethor remained calm. "Then what of the Lady Meril?" he asked, naming the young noblewoman whom Boromir was known to be courting. "Would you consent to marry her?"  
  
Outraged and unable to speak, Boromir bowed, and said, "By my lord's leave?" then left the room without an answer. This was a battle he could not stand to lose.

..  
  
Boromir scrawled quickly a letter to Meril, asking her to meet him at midday on the morrow. He gave no reasons, simply stating that matters needed seeing to, then signed his name and folded the parchment. Taking a candle, he dripped wax over the loose corners and stamped them with the image of a dove. Boromir swore. "Stupid Faramir," he muttered, knowing who kept a dove seal, then immediately regretted his words. "Stupid Boromir for not looking."  
  
He took the letter to the practice yards, encountering along his path a much distressed Faramir. Boromir caught his brother by the shoulders; the impact spun them both round. "Watch yourself, Little Brother!" Boromir chided, his voice lighter than air in his happiness, for his mind dwelled upon Lady Meril, whom he did love, even if marriage threatened to destroy this emotion. Seeing his brother's disappointment, Boromir frowned. "Here now, let us not have this for you, Bear." He might have dried Faramir's tears, had Faramir cried any. "I warned you he might say no, Fara, you know how Father is--"  
  
"He hates me!" Faramir interrupted. "Father hates me!"  
  
"Now!" exclaimed the elder, rubbing his brother's shoulder to calm him, "that's never the case, Faramir." Boromir was loyal to Faramir before nearly anyone in the world, but even in his anger with Denethor would not hear his father slandered.  
  
"He said it himself, though. Or, as good as," Faramir admitted. "He refused to send me to Rohan--he says I will disgrace him. He all but called me unworthy of his blood!"  
  
Recognizing hysterics closing in on his brother, Boromir said, "Take some rest, Little Brother. You are weary; surely this confuses you. Everything will look better after a good sleep."  
  
Faramir shook his head. "I must solve this...there must be a way!"  
  
"Must be agony for you, Little Bear, a problem you cannot solve. With rest and a clearer mind--"  
  
"You know naught of this, Boromir. Yours is a fighter's mind."  
  
"Then I shall treat you as an opponent!" Boromir cried, and swept his brother off his feet. Finding himself suspended above the ground, Faramir knew at once that the slightest protest would cause Boromir to exact his most secret revenge. The younger child grimaced, hating that anyone knew how ticklish he was. "What is it now, Little Bear? Sleep or giggle like a little girl, your choice."  
  
"What if I say giggling?" Faramir challenged, in a perverse set of mind. "Will I laugh and be released?"  
  
"No," Boromir replied, "you will laugh, and I will carry you back to your cell and hit you over the head with a blunt object."  
  
Laughing weakly at this threat, Faramir agreed to sleep and was duly released. He was glad Boromir had threatened him: he wanted to rest, but considered it something of a failure to leave a problem unsolved. "You really are a pain sometimes, Big Bear."  
  
"And you are an absolute pipsqueak, Little Bear," Boromir returned, embracing his brother. "Now off, go, sleep!" Faramir scurried away, and Boromir made his way to the practice yards.  
  
In the dusky gloom, with torches round the ring, two pages fought one another with staves of wood. Equal in height, the broader of the boys was a ginger-haired fellow with the first signs of whiskers on his chin. The other was a willowy, lithe creature who ducked and blocked swiftly, and attacked in roundabout manners. The ginger boy had strength as his ally, but the willow would not easily be caught.  
  
It was the willow who first noticed Boromir. He paused for a moment, squinting into the darkness, and the ginger boy nearly hit him on the head. Recovering with not a second to spare, the willow tucked into a ball and rolled swiftly behind the ginger boy, unfurled himself and wrapped an arm around the ginger boy's throat. "Cheater!" exclaimed the loser.  
  
The willow released the ginger boy. "We are watched, Caranlas. Look."  
  
In unison the boys bowed politely, and the ginger--Caranlas--called, "Greetings, friend, and what brings you at this hour to the pitch?"  
  
Boromir smiled at the youths, and stepped into the torchlight. Caranlas's jaw dropped--Willow tugged on his friend's tunic, and he dropped to one knee. "Begging my lord's pardon for not doing you such a courtesy before," Willow spoke with proper reverence.  
  
"Excused." Boromir wished he might be simply a knight to these boys. Courtliness and manners suited Faramir and Denethor fine, but Boromir much preferred the way of the sword. "Please do rise, and may I be only a knight to you who seeks a messenger."  
  
"Messenger, sir?" asked Caranlas. "Where to?"  
  
Boromir withdrew his letter. "Do either of you know the dwelling of the Lady Meril?" he asked.  
  
"I do, sir," Willow offered. "I can take the letter there for you, sir, or directly to her, if you druther. She will not be in her home at this hour."  
  
Somewhat offended by the forward attitude of the young boy, Boromir asked in a voice of iron, "How should you know such things?"  
  
Biting back an amused smile, the boy answered, "Begging my lord's pardon, but she is my sister."  
  
Boromir laughed aloud at this, thinking how silly he had been to assume this youth a watcher of women. He gave the boy his letter and a coin for his trouble, though he needn't have done so, and bade both youths farewell. With a light heart, Boromir returned home.  
  
He headed first for his bed, feeling worn, but with his hand upon the doorknob paused. His heart was ill at ease, and Boromir knew that any sleep he caught would be unfulfilling. Turning away, he went to check on Faramir.  
  
For a long while Boromir only watched his brother sleep. Faramir had braided his hair, much to the annoyance of Denethor, who viewed this as an openly effeminate act. 'Then he has never seen my Little Bear sleep,' Boromir thought, looking fondly upon the peaceful face of his brother. Faramir shifted in his sleep, throwing the covers askew, and Boromir moved to tuck the blankets around his brother's sleeping form. Coming into contact with Faramir's chest, thoughts flashed through Boromir's head--how easily he lifted his brother into the air, the look on Faramir's face when Boromir threatened to tickle him, the way he pushed his food around but never seemed to eat.  
  
Boromir stripped the blankets away from Faramir with a trembling violence and lifted his brother's shirt. The sight that greeted him caused Boromir to gasp. "Oh, Fara," he whispered. "Oh, Bear..." Faramir's chest was emaciated. His ribs protruded against the skin. Prodding his brother lightly, Boromir felt flesh and bone but no fat. Tears threatened, but Boromir bit them back. So Faramir would not eat. Was he so unhappy? Why had Boromir not seen it?  
  
Quietly, Boromir tucked the covers around Faramir and kissed his brow. Then he retreated.  
  
Boromir immediately went to his father. Denethor looked up from his desk to regard with utter poise to harassed-looking son before him. Even the Steward of Gondor, however, could not mask his shock at the announcement which followed an awkward silence. "Send Faramir to Rohan and I will marry whomever you choose."

* * *

To be continued  
  
Credit to Mercury Gray for the idea of calling Boromir 'Big Bear.'  
  
Feedback is always appreciated, and I will do my best to have the next chapter up more quickly.  
  
The names of Boromir's female friend and her brother are Elvish words; the girl is Rose and her brother Willow. I don't know much about names in Middle-earth, and am sorry for any grievous injuries done. 


	5. Rohan

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

* * *

Faramir found Rohan impressive in a daunting manner. The openness of the plains shocked him, and he could not help but stare at the multitude of blond-haired men and women. Equally, they stared at him: obviously foreign, his clothing worn from only days of travel, his hair dark as soot, and his skin so pale! This (and no question remained) was a child of stone. Their stares made Faramir feel naked, and he did not look back after some moments, but the weight of the gazes of what felt like every Rohir in Edoras rested heavily upon him. Suddenly he understood that, to these people, Faramir represented all of Gondor. He straightened his shoulders and tried to appear noble and friendly at once. 

He didn't feel either, in his heart. He felt alone and frightened. His horse was stabled and being seen to, his belongings, everything he had been able to fit into his saddlebags and knapsack, he carried. The urge to straighten his tunic bumped again and again against Faramir's rigid self-control.

For the umpteenth time he wished no escort followed behind him. The knight Culas and his squire Beregond, with whom Faramir had left Gondor, followed behind him. Faramir would have given anything to be alone. What sort of clean start could he make with two guards who, while Faramir respected that they protected him, made Faramir feel jailed.

_Juniper_, Faramir thought to distract himself. _Used as a diuretic and to cure dysfunctions of the bladder and kidney._

Edoras was so different from Minas Tirith! Even the city was more open, a blossom to Minas Tirith's bud. Faramir felt terribly exposed.

_Zedoary, Turmeric; used for debility of the digestive organs._ (Memorized from the text given him by Theodred, Faramir knew not what this phrase meant) _Ginger has the same effects and is more often employed._

He set one foot on the first of the stairs leading to the doors of the Golden Hall, and Faramir raised his head, and the doorguard looked upon him. _That may be as well,_ Faramir thought. _They see my approach; I do not hide from them, so perhaps they know I mean no harm._ The stairs comforted Faramir, reminding him vaguely of the Tower of Ecthelion, and set his heart at ease. "Please," he said, turning to Beregond and Culas, "leave me be now." Faramir needed to be alone, needed to know he could do this for himself.

Culas frowned. He had dark eyes which somewhat frightened Faramir, unreadable eyes. "Our orders were to deliver you safely into the custody of the king of Rohan," he said.

"And so you have done. Here is the Golden Hall of Edoras and I am safe. You have done your job, and well," Faramir replied.

The knight's eyes seemed to darken, if such a thing was possible, but at last he nodded. Faramir sighed with relief and bade the knight and squire farewell. Then he pushed himself up the stairs, almost giddily.

"I am come to see the King," Faramir said to the doorguard, looking up at the tall Rohir.

"The King does not now hold open audience."

Faramir shook his head. "I have a letter..." Where had he left it? Oh, no. "One moment, if you please?" He dropped to his knees and dug frantically through his knapsack. "I cannot find it," he muttered, dreadful realization dawning. What if he had not brought it? No! He always remembered everything! He could not possibly have--

"That will be enough from you, boy. Unless you have reason--"

"I do, truly!" Losing his nerve, Faramir knew the doorguard found him suspicious. Theodred had written, Faramir knew he had, but now Faramir could not find the letter and-- his hand brushed against something familiar, and without thinking he snatched it up. This proved a most unfortunate move. The dagger gifted to Faramir in farewell from his father flew from its sheath, and in moments the doorguard had immobilized the boy.

Faramir's heart raced painfully. He knew that if he did nothing, he would stand no chance of entering the Golden Hall. He would be tossed to the ground and in all likelihood cast from Edoras, at which point he would dare not return to Gondor but wait, hoping, for Theodred to ride out and find him. But what course of action could he take? Acting on a sudden impulse, Faramir screamed as loudly as he could: "Theodred! Theodred, help!"

"Enough!" the doorguard, startled off his senses by the shrill voice in his ear, thumped Faramir in the stomach. The winded child immediately fell limp and silent, and the doorguard released him, but warily.

For a long moment neither of them dared move, uncertain and afraid, in each his own way. The doorguard feared he had injured the boy dreadfully. Faramir feared the doorguard. So they remained in silence, the doorguard half-watching Faramir and half-watching the stairs, and Faramir crumpled on the ground clutching his belly, until the door to the Golden Hall was thrown open and forth strode--

_Oh, by Arda..._

Faramir struggled to his feet. The doorguard straightened his shoulders, then bowed.

"What goes on here?" Theoden asked.

"My liege, this boy..."

The doorguard's words were lost to Theoden, who squinted at the child. He certainly looked familiar, but from where? Then all at once he remembered, and asked, "Daisy?" _Oh, no._ Theoden recovered himself, "Faramir?"

"Thanks be!" Faramir leapt forward and engulfed the king in such a hug that Theoden had to assure the doorguard that he was, in fact, quite fine. "Perhaps better," he added, smiling. "Now, where is Theodred?"

_**

* * *

**_

Faramir found Rohan to be every bit what he had heard, every piece of gossip a truth, and yet it was nothing the crude vernacular could touch upon. The plains stretching as far as the eye could see, those were true, but how far they rambled! How they shook with the hooves of horses, how gallant and brave the riders appeared, what heroes! Faramir sat for hours watching every blade of grass shift in the slightest of winds. He did not speak.

"Daisy, Daisy," Theodred would chide in jest, shaking his head when Faramir stumbled to what he now knew as home, often past dark, his legs moving stiffly from hours sitting still. "What do you see?" Faramir always shook his head to the question, and never spoke a word.

Every day he asked Theoden for permission to climb the city's wall and watch the plains. Theoden often replied, "Please yourself." Other times he might answer, "Look after yourself" or "Do not cause any great mischief." Faramir was unfamiliar with such a freedom, being more accustomed to such an answer as "Be back within the hour" or, more often, "How is your sword-arm?" The lack of boundaries intimidated him, and he withdrew into himself. This was also due to a riveting fascination with the new world around him. Every day he looked with wide eyes, drinking in every detail of his surroundings, sometimes the same details day after day, and he never tired of them. He dared speak of this to no one, lest he be mocked and the beauty shattered.

"Do you suppose Daisy is well, Father?" Theodred asked in private. The nickname seemed to have stuck fast to Faramir, who not only answered to it but even smiled upon it. "He is _horrid_ with his manners--" meaning, of course, that Faramir hardly moved but to follow decorum "--and he hardly smiles."

Theoden nodded. "I believe Daisy smiles more within himself than without. Give him time to adjust. Rohan differs much from Gondor."

The next morning Faramir rose very early. He crept away from home and strode briskly through the streets. The sky was grey with a predawn lack of light, the air a darker hue as though saturated with particles of dust. There grew a terrible ache in Faramir's heart, as though it had been encased in stone and fought against it, and he broke into a run. Propelling himself forward, racing with all the muscle built up over the years, Faramir flew to the most eastern point on the wall. He tripped on the stairs, pushed himself up to his feet and, panting, braced himself against a rail raised for safety.

The sun came up slowly, every heartbeat second a fleeting eternity. Faramir felt beautifully alone. He felt he was seeing Rohan for the first time, the first man ever to see the land. He felt, quite abruptly, alive.

And Faramir did begin to live.

Of course he continued to run, but he invited Theodred to accompany him and together they informed Theoden of their intentions. They ran races, which Faramir nearly always won. Theodred often suggested riding, but Faramir refused. "You go on, though," he would say. "Do not stay here on my account!"

It was late afternoon, an hour or so to sunset. Faramir sat at a table in the library, something he believed every kingdom in the world to have, with a heavy tome lying open before him. Theodred stood before him, and his eyes were sad. "Will you ever forgive me, Faramir?" Theodred asked at last, snatching up Faramir's attention with the use of his proper name. "I never meant your father to be so angry."

"Whatever can you mean?" Faramir asked, raising his eyes to meet those of Theodred.

"You never will come riding with me," Theodred said. "I presume you do so in anger or in fear... I am sorry for what your suffered on my behalf. I was a stupid boy and did not think. When will you forgive me?"

Faramir bit his lip against tears. "I never intended to cause you harm," he said. Theodred raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Realization hit Faramir like a heavy stone: he would have to trade a piece of his past for Theodred's happiness. As a friend and a guest, Faramir knew there was no choice. "Theodred, I have never been given free rein in a library. Father bartered with me, granted me an hour or two but never could I sit and read to my heart's content..." he laughed. "My heart will never be content."

Theodred sat opposite his friend. "What are you reading?" he asked, and Faramir began to cry, so touched was his by the goodness of his companion.

**__**

The next morning, Theodred left a note for Faramir asking that the younger boy meet him in the stable nearest the city's main gate. Faramir dressed quickly and ran to find his friend. He and Theodred had explored every corner of Edoras together, running or walking, even only speaking of the places Theodred knew so well he could see when he closed his eyes. Faramir was not once lost.

"Theodred!"

The prince of Rohan smiled. "At long last, slow-coach," he replied. "Good morrow. Come and help me tack up."

Faramir regarded the horse before which the two boys stood, a huge black gelding. "Theodred, I would be afraid to put a saddle on him," Faramir whispered, shaking his head and stepping back.

"Then let us ride bareback," Theodred replied, smiling. He had a ploy and an indomitable spirit because of it. He would have his way. On such a beautiful day, what could possibly go wrong? The sun was shining, the air was clear, the sky so blue and eternal a person might drown in it. The day was one for happiness and adventure, or so Theodred most firmly believed.

"Your father--" Faramir began, but Theodred only laughed and presented Faramir with a letter, signed by the king himself.

Theodred grinned. "You have his explicit permission to ride this horse. Get up there, Daisy."

The plains of Rohan shook beneath the horse's great hooves. The earth split open, great chasms gaping wherever the horse struck. Faramir and Theodred shouted, whooped and howled. They announced their presence, pride and liberty to the skies. They screamed out their agonies and shames and were truly free.

Laughing, their lungs aching, the boys fell into the grass and rolled over and over. The great black gelding had been hobbled, his front hooves bound loosely that he could walk but not run, and grazed lazily. If he was tired, he did not show it.

"You're living, Daisy!" Theodred yelled. "Free of that horrible wretch you call a father."

"Theodred!" Faramir exclaimed. "I may not have a wonderful relationship with him, but he is still my father. Just because he and I do not embrace as you and Theoden King do does not mean that he is a horrible wretch."

Much sobered, Theodred replied, "He never allowed you to study botany. You always loved it. Why should that have been forbidden, hm?"

Sighing, Faramir shook his head. He turned away from Theodred, peering instead to the endless horizon, the grasses rippling in the warm summer breeze. "You cannot understand. You are Rohirrim. You are different."

Theodred crossed his arms over his chest. "Try me," he said, and Faramir did.

"Father wants proper sons. In Gondor, yes, this does mean a son who practices no such girlish arts as botany."

"You are lying," Theodred accused. "Tell me the truth. I order you."

Torn between his binding to rules of decorum, which, Faramir realized, he had one by one begun to throw out the window, and his desire to strengthen his relationship with Theodred, Faramir flopped onto his back and stared up at the sky.

"Do not tell me," Theodred said. "If you speak only because I order you to, we are not friends. Tell me only what you wish to speak of."

"I poisoned him," Faramir said casually. Then with a deep sigh, for Faramir's lungs at last filled fully with a great stone moved from them, he flopped onto his back and stared up at the manifold azure sky.

"You did what?" Theodred asked, disbelieving, shocked and a little impressed.

Faramir continued to stare at the sky. The soft grass tickled his neck and his braids formed a pillow for his head. "I slipped him a concentration of, oh, I believe it was elder but do not properly remember. I concocted a vile potion and my father consumed it unknowingly."

Theodred stared at his friend, intrigued, his eyes wide, but no information was forthcoming. "And?" Theodred asked at last. "What happened?"

"Nothing much." But Faramir was blushing, and again he told the truth. "Elder can be used as a diuretic or to cure constipation. If one needs not these symptoms but takes the medicine anyway, they may... experience... similar results."

For a moment longer Theodred only stared, shocked that Faramir would do such a thing, wholly impressed with his young friend. Then he burst out laughing and began to applaud. "No wonder the old man dislikes botany," he crowed. "No wonder at all!"

The leaves fell and the air grew colder. Rohan experienced a heavy snow that winter, and a marauding wolf that hunted deer more swiftly than the men did not help. Faramir and Theodred joined the party hunting the wolf, following two other men out of Edoras.

"Wolves," Faramir whispered to Theodred, "may live in packs of about six, or alone. They are silent, able to run on only their toes." They crept through a thicket in which the wolf was thought to reside, trying like the wolf to move in silence. Every cracked twig seemed to echo. Even the beating of their hearts resounded in their ears. Faramir jerked to the left of a sudden. "Did you see that?" he asked Theodred.

"Hush," hissed one of the men, for he too had seen and wished to listen for any telltale sounds. He was in the lead, a burly man who wore a foxfur cloak and who had with a knife removed the hair from his head. He enjoyed war and fighting though he did not wish it, and he enjoyed giving off the air of an impressive hunter.

"See what?" asked the fourth member of their party, a nervous but apparently competent boy of no more then twenty years. The three rookies followed the expert, glad for a chance to learn and gain experience.

"I fear we are prey," Faramir whispered.

No sooner had he spoken than a white wolf leapt from the trees. As though able to discern their leader, it bounded towards the older man. He whipped out his weapon of choice, a small axe, and braced himself. The wolf rushed toward him, jumped-- and at the last minute the man dodged to the wide, striking out with his axe as he did so.

But he suffered for his theatrics, for though the wolf landed roughly before falling to the ground, the man also fell.

The Rohirrim boys went to him, Theodred taking a protective stance and the nervous boy observing the damage to the warrior. Faramir ran to the wolf, which struggled to its feet. Blood painted its white hide red. It emitted a low growling sound, and Faramir drew the sword from its scabbard at his hip. "No," the warrior called to him. "We will track it." Faramir brought the sword swishing through the air so fast and so hard the wolf did not even howl. Its spine was severed; it died swiftly.

Before he could recover from the knowledge of what he had done, Faramir was being shaken by the warrior, who seemed quite all right save for the few gashes on his shoulder. "What are you thinking, boy? We could have found the den from that one! You lost us a kill, stupid!"

"Leave him alone!" Theodred's voice rang out with surprising clarity, and the warrior dropped Faramir. "You will not lay one finger on that boy," the prince continued.

"Meaning no disrespect," the warrior said, facing his prince, "but this boy may have cost lives, Rohirrim lives."

"No," Faramir said quietly, "I did not. Look at her. She was not well fed. She is not the predator you worried about. She is only a mother looking after her babes. Trying to take care of her babes." His words fluttered as misty clouds in the air, and he whirled to face the others with a determined expression on his face. "I will follow her tracks back to her den. I killed her. I will raise her pups."

The warrior shook his head and cried the duty insane, but Theodred said, "I will follow you, Faramir. You are my responsibility." The warrior followed Theodred, and the nervous boy followed the crowd.

* * *

To be continued 

I am not certain of the botanical potions discussed in this chapter.


	6. Petals

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

_Theodred,_

_Please look after Faramir. He is a competent liar and will not say if he is troubled. I am writing, therefor, to warn you of the signs._

_First, Faramir may not eat. Be certain he does. The day before he left for Rohan I counted his ribs through his skin. If you notice Faramir not eating, please do not let him continue to starve himself._

_Second, he thinks he can do anything. It is out of love, not want of faith, that I say that he cannot. Faramir cannot accept limitations. He wants to make the world a better place for everyone, and some times he forgets himself when he sets his feet on this path. _

_My brother is a good person. There are few more pure, more wise and innocent people in this world. Please take care of him as I could not._

_Sincerely, Boromir_

Boromir's heart was not pounding. He gave thanks. His chest ached enough with every bash of blood into his veins. He wondered if his heart was capable of pounding. He felt too tired to care. Boromir shifted slightly, and the rings of mail he wore concealed beneath his clothing clinked against one another.

Denethor looked up sharply, and Boromir thought of mice. Faramir once found a mouse, and loved it. The mouse, a little white thing with pink paws and a constantly twitching pink nose, ran away from Faramir, naturally. At the time Faramir was eight years old, and he missed the mouse but harbored no anger towards it or towards nature.

"What was that?" Denethor asked Boromir.

"I cannot imagine," Boromir replied. He drank. Since Faramir left and Meril began living with Boromir, he had taken to drink. Knowing the dangers of such a habit, Boromir never intoxicated himself beyond sense. He swallowed only enough to give him a happy, blurred feeling about the world. He drank cider now, what he considered a woman's drink, bitter and biting.

"You lie," Denethor accused. His hair was graying, and Boromir wondered if this lent him such a poor demeanor: was his vanity bruised? Was he vain? Faramir would have an answer.

"So be it," Boromir muttered. "So be it."

Had family suppers always been so hellish? Boromir did not think so. Then, he had been rather disillusioned of late. Perhaps he simply had not noticed. Every evening Denethor seated himself at the head of the table with Boromir to his right and Meril always to his left. Boromir wondered why this was, for Denethor seemed to bear Meril naught but ill will. Because of this she rarely spoke in his presence.

Boromir brought his shoulders forward and back again in tiny circles. He felt the metal so close to his skin. The armor used to lend him an internal strength, but he had since realized that this was a strength born of faith. Boromir no longer had that faith. He had faith in only a few things: his own physical strength, the rise and set of the sun, and Faramir. Tears came to his eyes, but he would not cry them.

Instead he looked at Meril. Her eyes were focused on her hands, but Boromir knew if she raised her eyes they would be deep amber. She wore her hair in two thick braids, one of which fell forward over her left shoulder, and shorter strands of fringe hung over her eyes. Boromir once told Faramir that Meril had light brown hair, but he had been wrong, for her hair was dark. She was very plain, which Boromir appreciated. He disliked beauty in women.

The two of them were yet unwed. They slept in separate, albeit adjoining, chambers. Since Meril had come to live with Boromir, Denethor had ceased pressuring him to marry, for Denethor did not approve of Meril, who came from a family newly named nobles. This suited Boromir well. Meril was only ten and seven years old, only a year older than Faramir. Boromir could not imagine marrying a child.

A strange memory came to Boromir then: probably the most trouble Faramir had ever been in. Faramir was three years old and Boromir was eight, and Faramir, for some reason angry, initiated a physical battle with Boromir. On reflection, Boromir thought that Faramir already knew how to fight smartly instead of strongly, for he had rammed his head into Boromir's crotch. Boromir's eyes had rolled back, and he had lost consciousness for a while.

He knew not what happened while he was unconscious, but when he awoke Faramir was sobbing and Denethor was shaking him and shouting. At the time, Boromir had not understood the reason for Denethor's anger. He understood it now. Faramir might have ended Boromir's ability to produce an heir. Had it been so, Faramir's children would have inherited.

Boromir still knew not if he was capable of reproducing as he had yet not taken a wife. He wondered if Denethor so hated that Faramir would have been his heir. Or was it simply the injury to Boromir? He tried not to think about it.

That night, Faramir had tiptoed down the corridor to Boromir's chamber and whispered, "Are you awake?" He was only three years old, but he formed full sentences. Faramir had hardly said a word until he was a year old, at least not that anyone heard, but that was a different story.

"What is it?" Boromir had asked.

Faramir hauled himself onto Boromir's bed, and Boromir was amazed how small Faramir was. How could such a tiny person have caused such intense pain? "I'm sorry," Faramir had said. "I was angry."

"Not to worry, the pain is practically gone," Boromir had lied.

Faramir then lay beside his brother. "I love you, Boromir," he said quite sincerely, and Boromir felt oddly guilty. He felt, for some reason, that he ought to have protected Faramir when Denethor was shouting and shaking him.

"I love you, too, Faramir," Boromir had answered.

Now, sitting opposite Meril, Boromir felt a shadow of physical pain from the memory. The ache in his chest grew heavier, and to his shock and shame a tear slipped down Boromir's cheek. He said nothing and hoped no one noticed.

Meril did. "Boromir," she said, quite softly, "what is the matter?"

Boromir forced himself to smile. "Nothing," he assured her. "Everything is fine." He pushed the tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. "I was just thinking of my brother."

"You must miss him terribly," Meril said, and Boromir realized for the first time what she had sacrificed for him. Meril, too had a young brother, a boy of perhaps twelve years. Boromir remembered that now.

"I hope only that he is happy," Boromir said.

"What is he like?" Meril asked.

Denethor pounded his fist on the tabletop. The two young people looked to him in shock. "Faramir will not be spoken of at this table," Denethor ordered.

That night, Boromir took the letter he had written almost a year ago and stamped it shut with green wax. "Look after him, Theodred," he whispered, as though the Rohir might hear him.

* * *

Denethor paced the length of his study, spun on his heel and paced again. He had much to reflect upon, much to decide. He had behaved horribly at supper. He knew that.

"Boromir must think I hate his brother," Denethor spoke his fear aloud. He could not admit, even in his thoughts, that he would not hear Faramir spoken of out of love. He could not bear the horror of the truth: he drove Faramir away, made his son so unhappy the boy felt the need to leave home, and who knew if he would ever return? If he admitted this, Denethor would be forced to admit that he had been wrong in his insistence that Faramir take up manly arts; he would admit that everything he believed was skewed.

He much abused Meril because she was like Faramir. Thinking of her, he could think only of the implications of her presence: Faramir. Boromir had taken a woman like to his brother, as though to replace her. She would leave. Denethor knew that in good time she, too, would leave.

Yet, for the moment, how Denethor envied Boromir! How when Boromir and Meril spoke, how the gentle attraction (could it be love?) in their eyes, mirrored his own love of Finduilas. Denethor despised love. He despised its cunning, its indomitability, he despised that it made him feel weak.

Denethor gained relief at the thought of himself as a reflection of Gondor. He thought of himself as the steel of swords and the stone of his great Stone City, his Minas Tirith. He would not crumble, he would not cry. He was not a man: he was Gondor.

* * *

That night Boromir and Meril lay side by side, fully clothed and as intimate as ever they would be.

"Have I ever told you," Boromir asked, "that one of Faramir's first words was my name?"

"No," Meril said.

"He was nearly a year old, and no one had heard him speak. Then one night, Mother was holding Faramir and reading to us, and she paused for a moment and I asked if I could hold him. Faramir was still very small at the time, and I a child also, but Mother trusted me to hold him for a moment. I remember being surprised at how heavy he was, and being careful not to drop him. Then Faramir reached up and locked his arms behind my neck in what I hope was a hug, not an assassination attempt, and he said, 'Love you, Boromir.'

"After that he pretty much proclaimed his love for everyone he met, but I do not know that he meant it. That night, though, when I was holding him, I knew with as much certainty as I knew my own name, that he meant what he said."

Meril touched his cheek. "I love you, Boromir," she said, and meant it, and knew he did not hear.

(One week later)

_Boromir,_

_Your brother is in good hands. He eats and makes small, subtle improvements to the world. I think that he is happy, but please ask not of him from me. Write to your brother. Let him know you care. He does love you; that I will say._

_Sincerely, Theodred_

The day Boromir received the letter, he could not help but smile. Faramir was happy. Faramir was healthy. Boromir breathed more easily. He smiled as he sparred, as he rode, as he bathed, and even smiled as he sat down to what would be one of the most hellish suppers of his life.

"What makes you so happy?" Denethor asked, not kindly but neither unkindly.

"I have had word from Theodred of Rohan," Boromir replied, "and Faramir is well."

Denethor's eyes softened for a moment, gave a flinch of great pain, then returned to iron orbs. "I will not suffer his name at this table," Denethor said, and truly he did suffer Faramir's name: he suffered knowing what he had done to his son, and that suffering made him cruel.

And for the first time, Meril spoke in defiance of Denethor. She did not know Faramir and so could not care for him; in fact because he so occupied and troubled the mind of the man she loved, she despised him a little. But she loved Boromir, and it was for him that she spoke.

"Now stop that," she said. "Faramir is your son, and you cannot deny that he exists! Boromir loves his brother. Perhaps you envy him, for you seem so incapable of such a thing as love. Your heart is too cold for it." She shivered as she spoke, as though the coldness of Denethor's heart struck her to the bone.

Denethor turned to Boromir, who looked at the plate before him. "You see now, my son, why we do not marry below ourselves," he said. "No common-born woman knows her place."

Boromir said nothing. Meril clenched her fists in her lap and stared ahead without seeing. Her shoulders shook and her nails bit blood from her palms. After a while tears began to flow down her cheeks. For a quarter of an hour these conditions endured: there was silence, save the clink of cutlery and the plinking sounds of tears hitting the table. Then a sob was wrenched from Meril's throat, and she ran from the room.

When Boromir returned to his chamber that night, Meril awaited him. She stood in the center of the chamber, composed but poorly so. She had bags at her feet and was dressed to travel. "Meril," Boromir said.

"I love you, Boromir," she said. "I truly love you. Do you see me only as a replacement for your brother? I can endure this life, I will, if you ask it, do what I can to replace your Faramir. If you ask it of me, I will stay. But please, with all of my love I say this: do not ask it of me. If you love me, let me go."

Boromir remained silent for a moment. He strode forward until he was close enough to kiss Meril, and he did, and held her for a moment. Then he released her and stepped away. "If you love me," he said, "you will leave this unhappy place and not look back."

* * *

To be continued 

Cleasmile: Herbs are as much a hobby as I have; they are truly fascinating and there are some wonderful internet sites concerning them.

Thanks to my three reviewers for last chapter--those were some of the longest reviews I have ever received! And three in one chapter, wow. Thank you all!


	7. Pups

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

Eowyn tried to sit still which, given her current location, proved quite difficult. She straightened her back and was thrown quite suddenly back against her brother: Eomer said nothing, but tasted coppery blood. He had bit his tongue. Eowyn relaxed her body, realizing the futility of sitting up and not moving, and let herself be like water. She did not understand that phrase, to be like water, but had heard it many times, so imagined herself flowing off the horse as a river. At least she did not bounce so much.

For some time she had been riding, but she was not sore. Rohirrim, Eowyn believed, never grew sore from horses. She felt very safe, and as happy as she imagined she would ever be. Her safety could largely be attributed to her brother: Eomer cradled his sister as much as he could, holding both to her and the reins. Though she could not, in her youth, understand it, Eowyn sensed her brother's protective nature.

Winter was coming to Rohan, and a steady rain fell upon the riding party. For Eowyn, at least, this eased the pretending game: with each cold droplet slithering over her she imagined a runnel carved into her flesh, a bit of her sliding away. Much of the pounding and the icy needles focused their rage on Eomer, who gritted his teeth, glad at least that Eowyn was protected.

As the younger sibling gazed in wonder, able to do so now that they had slowed to a walk and entered Edoras, the elder scowled quite pointedly. Eomer scowled at the watching people, whispering, keeping a respectful distance; he scowled at the guards who had ridden with him and Eowyn; he even scowled at the warm comfort of the stable with its familiar smell of horse, hay and dung. Eomer of Rohan did not want to be happy, and today he was having what he wanted. He frightened Eowyn, a little. "Why are you angry with them?" she asked. "What did they do?"

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," Eomer replied shortly. Eowyn balked.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked in a tiny voice.

Eomer stopped and looked at his sister. Her blue eyes wobbled with fear an unshed tears. _She's only a child, after all, _he realized, a thing he had known all along. "Of course not, Eowyn. I could never be angry with you."

She smiled in a tight way, as though her muscles were far more accustomed to frowning.

The guards escorted their young charges to the Golden Hall. Still Eomer scowled, but he held tightly to Eowyn's hand so that she could not think herself the target of his displeasure. She bit at the skin around the nail of her free thumb. "Stop that," Eomer hissed, pushing her hand away from her mouth. Eowyn responded by moving closer to her brother. This new place frightened her; it all seemed so like home, yet so different.

"Are we going to live here now, Eomer?" she asked in a voice higher than her usual childishly shrill tone.

"Yes," Eomer answered. Eowyn moved closer to him. "Do you remember?" Eomer whispered. "We've come before, but you were very small."

"I don't a'member. Let's go home soon."

Eomer put his arm around Eowyn's shoulders and held her protectively. He hardly cared for the guards around them: someone needed to protect his sister properly, forever, and only he could do that.

In the Golden Hall they stopped, and listened briefly to the conference of the guards and the King. Eowyn felt her eyes begin to close: the hall was so warm, and she was sleepy after riding and trying not to cry. She swayed. Noticing this, Eomer glanced at his sister. Most would have felt some mixed feelings, not wishing to disrespect or offend a new guardian but equally loyal to a younger sibling. Eomer felt no such tearing.

"I beg your pardon," he said, in as loud and adult a voice as he could muster, "but we have been riding since near sunrise. My sister needs rest and, as she has no part in these discussions, it would be cruel to deny her this." On the last word Eomer's voice broke, and though he kept his chin high he colored deeply. One of the guards snickered.

Theoden glared the man to silence, then nodded to Eomer. The boy was angry. This Theoden had anticipated. He had forgotten, however, how small children were. _There is another matter to see to,_ he thought.

* * *

Eowyn slept for most of the afternoon and early evening. When she awoke Eomer was sitting near her, reading. "Where am I?" she asked.

Eomer closed his book. "You are in Edoras," he said.

She whimpered, and swallowed a rising lump in her throat that she knew to be a sob. She had been waging war on that same sob for days now. _Wanna g'home,_ she thought incoherently. Aloud, she said, "I'm hungry."

"That's as well," Eomer said, "because it's supper, and we are already late. I will meet you in the corridor."

He left, and Eowyn rose. She looked about the room for a moment--it was not large, which pleased Eowyn well. Other than the bed in which she had slept, it included a small worktable and a chair, which Eomer had dragged over to the bed to sit nearer his sister, and a trunk, through which Eowyn rifled to find among her belongings dry clothing. She was wearing a nightshift, and chose not to think who had put it on her. Hunger encouraged speed, and Eowyn dressed quickly and met her brother in the corridor.

It had taken some time for Faramir to adjust to the familial mood of suppers in Rohan, but Eowyn and Eomer, having grown up in such an atmosphere, were uncomfortable only for the new company. Eomer, however, seemed determined not to show his discomfort. Eowyn had no such qualms. She stared openly at the two huge dogs unlike any she had ever seen, which lounged lazily by the fire; at her cousin and uncle, whom she remembered vaguely; and in especial at the dark-haired young man beside Theodred, who seemed equally interested in her and Eomer, though he was far more polite with his interest. These five accounted for the entire company, and Eowyn was glad of that. More strangers would have been more intimidating.

No one spoke. The newness of every person to the others kept a tension between them enough that after a few well-meant attempts at conversation, even Theoden accepted the silence. Eowyn watched the dark boy as she ate, obsessed with him. She had seen men before with bay hair, but only twice and they had seemed odd enough. This man's hair was like a raven's wing, and his eyes like stone, yet so much softer. At last she leaned over to Eomer and whispered, in what she did not know was a quite loud voice, "Eomer, who is he?"

Theodred answered. "This is Daisy," he said. "He comes from Gondor."

"Gondor!" Eowyn gasped, and her eyes grew wide but she seemed to shrink away. "Gondor." She said the name in a tone almost reverent, it was so filled with fear. "Gondor." When she recovered from her awe, she had another question. "Your name is Daisy?" Eowyn asked, hardly believing. "Is that not rather a strange name?"

"Eowyn," Theoden said, gently but firmly enough that she knew he was serious, "that was a very rude question."

"I'm sorry," Eowyn said to Faramir. He smiled.

"Your name is Eowyn?" he asked, and she nodded. "That is a very pretty name."

She giggled, blushed, then seemed at Eomer's glare to catch herself and grew suddenly solemn.

"What about the dogs?" Eowyn asked. "They are different from any I have ever seen."

At that Theoden looked with a shadowed darkness at Faramir, a whisper only of an old argument. "They are wolves," Faramir answered, after a pause. The children stiffened, both suddenly afraid. Wolves killed--they knew that well. "Calisaya and Larkspur they are called, and they will not harm you. You have my word."

"You are yet a stranger and we know not the value of your word," Eowyn stated matter-of-factly.

Theodred began to laugh. "Did I not say it, Daisy?" he asked. "Did I not say to you that Eowyn was a child of brass?"

* * *

It was a nasty business, Theoden knew, but a necessary one. He listened to the clicking sounds coming from the corridor and steeled himself, thinking of Eowyn and Eomer. They were only children, and must miss their parents terribly, yet they tried to be strong and frankly succeeded. Theoden was responsible for them. They were blood. Little as Theoden liked what he was about to do, the children's safety proved sufficient motivation.

"Theoden, sir? You asked to see me?" Faramir peered round the door. For months Theoden had asked him to simply say 'Theoden,' but Faramir had not been able to so abandon the courtesies ground into his mind. 'Theoden, sir,' was the middle ground the two had reached.

"Yes; come in, please."

Faramir entered and stood facing Theoden, carefully appearing neither subservient nor defiant. He kept his chin raised only enough to show certainty and locked his hands behind him, carefully straightened his back, then bent forward in an informal bow and straightened again. Calisaya and Larkspur flanked him, watching Faramir with a predator's triangulating gaze down their long snouts. Larkspur yawned, tossing her white head in a wide circle. Like her mother, she was fully white. Calisaya was darker, mostly grey, leading Faramir to guess that they were half-breeds.

"I never have been easy with those wolves in my hall, Daisy. With Eowyn and Eomer here now, the wolves are too much a danger. They cannot remain. I am sorry." He meant every word, and it hurt him to give the order.

Faramir's eyes flashed, like a gate drawn quite suddenly closed. "Give them one more chance, sir, and if they harm Eowyn or Eomer in the slightest I will kill them both myself." He would not release them into the wild. The wolves were domesticated. He would make their deaths quick and painless, as their mother's death had been.

Theoden accepted this. "I have your word?" he asked.

"You have my word." He held out his hands, palms towards the ground. Calisaya and Larkspur pressed their noses against his open palms, and Faramir relaxed, inwardly if showing no signs with his posture or facial expression. The wolves were all but domesticated: all that remained of their feral nature was the occasional howl, and that only a lonely bay late at night. During the dry, electric nights of midsummer, Theoden wondered if those howls did not come from the homesick and half-feral Faramir. The young son of Gondor was not tame, and within was more wildness than the wolves combined. Theoden knew this, and watched Faramir carefully because of it.

"Good night, Faramir."

"Good night, Theoden, sir."

But such a thing was not to be. Faramir woke but remained asleep, as one who pulls taut cloth may see through but not truly see. Teetering on the edge of sleep, half of him urged his muscles to stand while the other half remained firmly in bed. He tried to recall what had wakened him--ah! The sound came again, and immediately Faramir was wide awake.

"Calisaya, Larkspur." He thrust out his hands. After brief scampering, the wolves licked his palms reassuringly. Faramir was puzzled. The pups (now grown, he yet considered them pups) were well. Then who...?

A shattering, muffled cry rent the air. "Eowyn." Faramir stumbled to his feet and into the corridor, his legs waking as he forced them to work. Two wolves padded beside him, worried by their fosterer's strange behavior.

"Lady Eowyn?" Faramir knocked on her bower door, thinking how odd that 'bower' applied only to the sleeping places of women. The word rolled over and over in his head, and he desired terribly to use it. He recalled Boromir's shining eyes when the brothers once slipped away from their duties and goggled at the wares in a smithy. Faramir had not been terribly interested, but he had known how Boromir would have loved to just touch one of the curved blades, notch-tipped knives, even one manicured hilt. So did Faramir now wish to speak aloud a strange word, but kept this desire within him.

No answer came from Eowyn save muffled sobs, similar sounds hailing Faramir from the room across the corridor where Eomer pretended he did not weep for his parents. Faramir froze, torn. He could not go to both of them, and though he wondered what they would make of his presence, he could not allow these children to cry alone. His heart would not allow such an injustice.

"Daisy."

"Theodred!"

The Rohir scoffed, teasing, "Do you suppose you might add a tiny bit of relief to your voice?"

"Forgive me. Where is your father? Your cousins..."

"I know. Father is sleeping--you know how he works, Daisy. Let him rest. Will you see to Eowyn?"

"Of course." Faramir was surprised. He knew how Theoden worked to keep the peace of Rohan, but, from Theodred's constant jesting, never knew the prince saw his father's struggle.

Faramir slipped into Eowyn's bower, motioning to the wolves, stay! In the darkness he could only feel his way around, so called softly, "Eowyn?"

"Who is here? Get out!" Her voice was thick and raw from crying.

"'Tis I, Daisy. Eowyn, are you all right?" His shin found Eowyn's bed. Faramir bit his lip to keep from crying out and knelt down, closer to her level.

Eowyn sniffed, trying not to cry. "You are a stone," she accused. "What do you know? You do not feel nor bleed, for you are of stone."

The insult cut deeper than she could imagine or intend, but Faramir bore it well, hiding his pain, ignoring it. "I lost my mama, too," he whispered, a fact he spoke of rarely, even with Boromir, never with Theodred. Eowyn grew suddenly quiet.

"When?" she asked in a small voice.

"I was five summers, younger than you are now. I miss her."

"I miss my mama," Eowyn said, more a fact than a complaint or lament. "I want her back."

"I know you do, little daughter of Rohan."

"What did you call me?"

"Little daughter of Rohan," Faramir repeated.

Eowyn pondered this for a moment, then asked, "Why?"

"When I was ever very sad, my brother said to me that all would be well for I had the strength to endure, for I was a son of Gondor. If sons of Gondor have quiet strength, daughters of Rohan must have an incredible, shouting strength, one to respect."

The little girl giggled, then gasped. She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Faramir. "I want my mama and my papa and I want to go home!" she wailed, and Faramir knew that though he might momentarily distract her, this child's grief ran deep and inconsistent. He held Eowyn the way his brother had always held him for strength, cradling and supporting at once. She shook and sobbed, biting him to muffle a sound she could not fight.

Faramir, without realizing what he was doing, began to sing a gentle lullaby, one he knew, but knew not whence nor how this knowledge came. Yet as he sang a picture formed in his mind's eye: a woman, young but not a girl, a woman fully. She smiled and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her brown eyes sparkled, and she too sang the song.

When had Finduilas looked so happy? Faramir could not recall. Always she had seemed haunted, harried, or even just sad. Faramir remembered her happy, singing to her sons--no, singing to her son, and only for him. The song ended, and he thought to cry.

Eowyn gave a startled yelp. Larkspur had nosed her way into the room, and the dregs of light gathered on her white coat. "Do not be afraid," Faramir besought her. "It is only Larkspur; she will not hurt you."

"Is she not a wolf?" the girl demanded meekly.

"She is a friend. Will you give her but one chance?"

"If I am hurt Uncle will kill her," Eowyn warned.

'Ah, no,' thought Faramir, 'I will kill her.' It was a right he fiercely guarded. "Come here, Larkspur," he said, alerting Eowyn, for he knew that the wolf did not hear. Larkspur came to Faramir's open palm and nuzzled him, then at the young man's signal Larkspur rested her head on Eowyn's knee. The rough, warm fur of the creature interested her, and she could not help but stroke Larkspur, if only a little and fearfully. Eowyn giggled, a bubbly sound filled with tears.

"Daisy?" she asked, after a long moment of quiet.

"I'm here."

"Stay with me?"

"You know that I cannot," Faramir answered, trying not to hurt her. He could feel a tantrum, or possibly a sobbing fit, approaching fast. "But Larkspur will. She will guard you."

This satisfied the little girl. Faramir sat beside her until she had fallen asleep, then wandered out of the bower, exhausted. The sky was beginning to lighten. Faramir collapsed into his bed, pulled the covers over him and slept in a dark dreamlessness.

To be continued

I'm sorry updates are taking so long: between finals and community service requirements my time is thinly stretched. Hopefully, if not before, I will be able to update (and complete!) this story over winter holiday. Thanks for your patience.


	8. Brothers

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

_Dear Boromir,_

_I am fine, thank you for asking. You may not believe this, but I have hardly read a book in months! There is so much more here, so many things to experience. Studying plants in the ground is nothing like studying them cut, dried, or as images on book pages. I can sit for hours just observing. It fascinates me, Boromir. Have you ever tried to map the direction of each leaf of grass in a single burst of wind? There are so many intricacies; there is so much beauty._

_However, fear not: while I would willingly lapse into complete lethargy and move nevermore from my observations (and still I would be happy when feeling left every muscle in my body) Theodred has other ideas. Though I am now nearing twenty years of age, more than past my majority and certainly finished growing, Theodred is able to haul me to my feet and down to the stables when he is so inclined. In the past few years we have earned trust enough that King Theoden hardly minded when we disappeared for hours on end._

_That's all changed now, though. since the passing of their parents, Theodred's cousins, Eowyn and Eomer, have come to live in Edoras as wards of their uncle. Eowyn is seven and Eomer elven years old, and they are incredible people. Eomer has this unbelievable anger. Sometimes I just want to take him aside and tell him that grief never dies, but life is still beautiful. I want to tell him how much his sister appreciates his devotion and how strongly she looks up to him. Of course I never do. How could he possibly understand without learning for himself? I wish this could be less painful for him. He is such a sweet child and in so much pain._

_As for Eowyn, she also masks her pain but far differently. I believe she may portion out her emotions, which is an amazing feat in a mature man, let alone a little girl. If she does not grow up to be the world's most wonderful woman I will spend the remainder of my life in a state of shock._

_Eo and Mero have fewer leniencies than Theodred and I and far more lessons. Left to this they would likely deteriorate in spirit, any fool can see that. Theodred and I formulated a plan and appealed to Theoden today. He agreed! Hardly half a breath later, we were cantering across the plains of the Riddermark. Eo all but screamed in glee; she is lucky to be so young. I think we all wished to release the same sentiment._

_More than anything, I want to give them a childhood. Do you recall anything before Mama's death? I cannot, and after… Was Father always so cold, Boromir? Have you always been so devoted to the army? I cannot think of a carefree time in my life. Please do not think I am complaining. That made me who I am, and I am not ashamed of myself. It is simply that I do not wish that life on them. No, the Riddermark is not Gondor. The Rohirrim are not stones._

_We had a good time on our little holiday. We started playing "Maul Ball", which is an incredibly violent game consisting mostly of tackling the person who tries to carry the ball to a given destination. Obviously, certain variations were made. While Theodred and I came away bruised and mauled completely, Mero suffered only a few bites from Eo, who in turn was only tickled. I almost wonder which of us would have defended her more fiercely!_

_The best was when Eo and Mero managed to knock Theodred to the ground and sit on him, or so we all decided whilst chewing the hardtack we'd brought for midday. Why we chose hardtack I am uncertain! We ended up tossing it at one another._

_We declared teams and started trying to shoot the ball into a goal without using our hands. Eo and I were a team with Lark. The opposite team should have been Theodred, Mero and Cal, but Cal refused to play against Lark. In fact, they mostly spent their time bowling us over. In the end Eo actually managed a goal, which was incredible given how often Cal and Lark knocked her down. Of all the beings in this world, they love her the most._

_I wanted her to feel special and happy, which is why I carried her around on my shoulders, running as fast as I possibly could. It is either ironic or appropriate to do this here, I cannot decide which._

_The oddest thing about that day was, after all the exhausting fun we had, Eo woke me that night. It was too dark to see, but no one else would grip me so tightly and burrow into my chest, sobbing quietly. I didn't know what to do, Boromir. I was terrified. Any wrong move, just one misspoken word could scar her. I held Eo and stroked her hair as though soothing a horse._

_"I want my mama!" she wailed. "I want my da! I wanna go home, I wanna go home, I wanna go home!" Hysterical, she clung to me and bit into my shoulder to keep quiet._

_"I know," I promised her. "I know it hurts, sweetling."_

_"I don't wanna hurt," she murmured._

_"No, no one does. I'm sorry, baby, it never stops."_

_Eowyn just kept crying and crying. I held her until she could breathe again, though tears continued to gush from her eyes. Boromir, knowing she will not always have me… it tears me up inside. I love Eowyn. I love her with all my heart. That is why I must leave. Do you understand? She is too attached to me already. If I do not leave soon, it will break her heart._

_And, truth? I want to come home, Boromir. I miss you. I miss Father, as well, and am beginning through distance to understand him._

_All and always my love,_

_Faramir_

Before the ink dried Faramir knew he would tear the letter to shreds and throw it on the fire. How could he keep such a document? He could not. If Eowyn were to see it, if his father were to see, there would be only anger and hurt feelings. Leaving such a blatant description of his emotions lying carelessly about would be poor politics and a matter of self-destruction.

But Faramir had to speak. His throat tore, fighting to keep the words down. Desperately, he wished someone would understand. To burden Eowyn and Eomer with such thoughts was, of course, unthinkable, and how could he tax Theodred, who joked horribly to escape the severity of his destiny?

A wet nose pressed against Faramir's cheek. He turned, smiling. "My dear Calisaya. If only you could answer me." She licked his cheek, leaving a tight, adhesive feeling. "Of course. You do!" Faramir whispered. As though comprehending, Calisaya pressed her forepaws against Faramir's chest. Still clutching the letter in one hand, he curled on the ground. The wolf was quick to follow.

* * *

"Forgive my taking such an advantage of your courtesy, Sir, but may I speak to you of a personal matter?"

Theoden looked carefully at the young man before him. _Daisy_. How carefully he must have slipped away from the others, perfected his timing to be alone yet not missed. Though it escaped the others, Theoden saw how deliberately Faramir moved and spoke. Every inch and syllable was weighed. This symptom evoked sorrow and admiration in the king. _What a product of a child in his wrong time,_ Theoden thought, _yet how perfectly formed a politician!_

"Speak," he invited. It was no order.

This moment the wolves did not flank Faramir. _Why does he come alone?_

"This matter has troubled me some time." As he spoke, Faramir's eyes were fixed on the floor before him. He knew this was rudeness and was shamed by his actions, but to meet Theoden's eyes would weaken him by emotion. He would cry. He would relent. "Please take no offense, Sir, but I wish to return home to Minas Tirith."

Theoden nodded slowly. He knew now why Faramir was alone. "Daisy, look at me," he ordered.

"Please, Sir"

"Faramir."

The word worked wonders. Faramir raised his eyes to meet Theoden's, and something therein loosed his tongue. "I am too much a part of your life and the life of your family. It seems if I stay, I may never be able to leave. Sir, I love Rohan and I love Eowyn, Eomer and Theodred though they were my brothers, but I am a son of Gondor."

Theoden gave his approval with an unhappy smile and a nod. "Go," he said. "A guard will be arranged to escort you. I ask, however, that you tell them yourself." Who 'they' were needed no explanation. Faramir agreed without hesitation. He was not so callous as to refuse.

* * *

"Daisy, Daisy! Awaken, you are needed!"

"What…?" Faramir woke slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Even so his mind slithered towards warmth and a lovely, botanically enriched dream. All those herbs growing together in one garden, Faramir thought he would melt from happiness…

Eowyn's wide blue eyes jerked him back to reality. "Theodred says you must come! He says hasten, there is great need!"

Faramir sat up, forcing action through his grogginess. He shivered as he pushed away the covers, thus losing the heat keeping his body warm. Blinking against the light of Eowyn's lamp, he said, "Lead me, little one."

"Theodred says you must not wake Uncle Theoden," Eowyn added. "Come on!" She turned and fled the room, Faramir close behind with Calisaya and Larkspur at his heels. Hardly seconds passed before they were immersed in the cold night. Faramir was glad he had taken to sleeping fully clothed. Even so he shook slightly at the chill. Had he known they would be out of doors, he would have grabbed his boots.

"Here." Eowyn stopped at the door to the stables, where Theodred stood waiting. "I brought him," she informed her cousin unnecessarily.

"What is it?" Faramir asked. The mystery of events infiltrated his mind, and he desperately wished he knew why he had been dragged from his bed near the middle of the night. Now that he managed to question, he hardly needed to. The sounds coming from the stables were those of furious weeping and destruction.

Theodred jerked his head towards the stables. "Eomer is hysterical, he will not tell us why." Faramir knew already. Knowledge must have shone in his eyes, because Theodred raised his eyebrows. "You do know. Then please, calm him."

With a deep breath, Faramir stepped into the stable.

Eomer was in the tack room. Anarchy lay at his feet, brushes, picks and other aspects of riding tack hurled to the ground with little regard. Within this havoc sat Eomer, tears streaming down his cheeks. He worked furiously, stitching up a burst seam in a saddle so small only one little Rohir could possibly use it. Often he paused angrily to shove tears off his face.

"Is Eowyn taking a trip?" Faramir asked.

Eomer looked up at him, eyes filled with hate. "If you are leaving, we come with you!" he announced. "You are not abandoning us!"

Faramir shook his head. "No, I am not, Eomer. And no, you are not. This is your home. You and Eowyn belong here."

Eomer stood, hurling the saddle to the ground. "Don't tell me where I belong!" He shouted so loudly Faramir all but heard the lining of his throat tear. Tears streamed from his eyes faster than he could wipe them away. Fascinated, Faramir gazed mutely at this intensely furious child. His unbridled passion was awesome and deeply disturbing. "Nothing gives you that right!" Eomer yelled. "_Don't you tell me where I belong!_"

Faramir knelt and lifted Eowyn's saddle. It was so light. Her youth struck him for the first time, yet it was not Eowyn Faramir thought of. What had this brother of hers sacrificed? What had he held back to keep her world from scattering? What had his own brother sacrificed for Faramir?

Eomer knocked the saddle again to the ground, and again Faramir knelt. This time Eomer kicked him, not with a particularly strong force, but with his boot foot on Faramir's unprotected shoulder the blow hurt as fire hurts ice. The steward's son did not respond, only gazed into Eomer's face, trying to pass on his understanding.

"Aren't you going to strike me back?" Eomer asked.

Faramir shook his head. "No. Never."

"But… but I shouted and ordered you about and I _kicked_ you!"

"Yes. And clearly you know these things were wrong. I forgive you."

Eomer's weeping increased in its fury. "No!" he cried. " I don't want forgiveness! I want you to be angry. I want you to hate me so I can hate you, too!"

Though Eomer shouted, Faramir continued with calmness and gentleness, "That won't take the pain away."

"I want you to hate me!" Eomer repeated.

Faramir shrugged. "I am sorry, but I am not yours to command." He settled Eowyn's saddle where it belonged, then began to gather the brushes.

Eomer watched this, hardly aware of the slow tears still on his face. "Why aren't you angry?" he asked.

"It does not matter what I feel," Faramir replied. "What matters is how _you_ feel. I cannot govern you."

Bitterly, Eomer cut in, "Because you are leaving."

Faramir shook his head. "Because only you can govern yourself," he corrected. "Eomer, you live in this place with an uncle who loves you, a cousin who will always protect you and a sister who greatly admires you. If this is not the place for you, come visit me in Minas Tirith. But first, Eomer, spend a year in Edoras. Adjust to the ebb and flow of life here. Accept your parents' absence, for they are always in your heart."

"I just want the pain to go away."

"I know, baby," Faramir said for the second time in two days. "And it never does." To Eomer's surprise, he did not mind being called 'baby.' From another person he might have protested the name, even lashed out against, but he understood that from Daisy, this was an invitation and an expression of comprehension. Daisy was saying, in that word, that he knew how impossible controlling one's emotions could be in such circumstances. He was inviting Eomer to simply _be_, not to worry or think.

Eomer knelt beside Faramir. "Let me help," he said, gathering the scattered hoof picks. "I do not understand why you are leaving," he said, trying to ask without emotion. "We need you here. Eowyn needs you here."

"That is why I must leave." Faramir deposited the brushes in the appropriate receptacle and started gathering saddle blankets. "I never meant to live in Rohan, only to stay here a time. I am a Gondorian, and my homemy familyis in Gondor."

Not understanding, Eomer shook his head. Silently, Faramir went on collecting. He had done his part. The rest was for Eomer to work out on his own.

When Faramir stumbled into the darkness, he ached wearily. When Theodred stepped forward to take the sleeping Eomer into his arms, Faramir did not protest. "Is he all right?" Theodred asked.

"He will be," Faramir promised.

They made their way back to their living quarters, all bone tired. Eowyn skipped to keep up with Faramir. "You are leaving us, Daisy?"

"Yes, baby." It was not the answer she had hoped for.

Faramir steeled himself for an outburst. None came. Eowyn only nodded solemnly. "You will write?" she asked.

"You have my word."

Eowyn nodded again. This satisfied her, and she made no protest.


	9. Home

Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof.

Faramir inhaled deeply, sorting through the smells of hay, horses and saddle leather. Surely the smells were identical in Gondor to those of Rohan, yet to him the sensation was dulled. He felt as though he had tea-stained an oil painting. Was it the smell of stones he failed to identify? Could rock compare with the free night air?

Faramir wrinkled his nose, then shook his head. "I knew all along," he told himself. "I knew I sojourned in Rohan, and sojourned only." He detested the lie nearly so much as he detested himself for having believed it. Even so, Gondor felt unreal, like a dream. That the land of his birth should feel foreign did not strike Faramir as odd: Gondor had always felt foreign to him, a language whose words he knew but the nuances of which bypassed him mercilessly. The difference now was that it felt foreign in comparison.

The moment Faramir stepped out of the stable, Cal leapt onto him. The grey wolf had reached her full size now; Faramir had tried to develop a response to her affection, bracing himself against the full onslaught of the animal, but with a hunter's strength and eighty-five pounds propelled by it, she was too strong for him. Faramir allowed himself to slump to the floor, smiling. _Soon you shall have a true opponent, Cal! My brother is far stronger than I am!_ He thought the words rather than speaking them, as Cal had driven the air from his lungs.

Boromir would often jest that he was born without a brain and his brother with no strength, and between the two they were a perfect man. True to his joke, he did not think, only felt and acted. He saw, and his mind numbly registered seeing, his little brother, home, at last returned to Gondor, where he belonged after four long years. He felt his heart re-form itself, scabbing over the gashes of Meril's leaving. Righteousness failed to heal him, but Faramir had that power. And when he saw the grey wolf attack his brother, he felt a lurching horror. His instincts sparked, and acted as his internal warrior demanded.

Cal fell at once, rolling to the dirt and howling. Faramir yelped. "Cal, what--" He needed not ask. The dagger lay in the dirt not two feet away. Glaring, he sought the source of the missile. "Boromir?" The glare melted away; Faramir's face crumpled. "Why?" he whispered.

Boromir could not understand. He knelt beside his brother in the dirt. "He was attacking you," he said. "What was I to do, Faramir?" When his brother shook his head and, mute, turned to the ailing wolf, Boromir persisted, "Bear, _what was I to do_? He would've killed you."

"Cal's my _friend,_" he whispered. "I've got to treat her." He scooped up the animal in his arms and staggered to his feet.

Boromir bit his lip. He could not have known Cal was a friend to Faramir and that they only played. Nevertheless, he felt guilty. His knife had slashed the wolf across the chest. Like as not, the animal would die. Boromir trotted to catch his brother. "Let me take her," he said. When Faramir recoiled, Boromir insisted, "I am stronger than you." Faramir ceded. The boys were such a sight no-one in the Citadel questioned them. In Faramir's long-unused bedchamber, Cal was deposited with great care onto the bed.

"Oh, Cal…!" Faramir turned to his brother and, without thinking, informed, "I need water and cloth, bog moss and cherry laurel. And a sharp knife."

Boromir surrendered the knife at once, and left without a word. Faramir cooed softly to the whimpering wolf. "Shh, Cal. Hold still now. Hold still." He hacked carefully at Cal's fur, blood sullying his hands. Tears fogged his vision, but he rubbed them away and scraped at Cal's skin until the area around the wound was clear. By then Boromir had returned. Without a word to his brother, Faramir began to clean the wound. When at last he was satisfied that he could not be more thorough, he applied the antiseptic moss and wrapped bandages tightly around the wolf's middle.

"Now what?" Boromir asked quietly.

"Now we wait. Oh, Boromir!" Faramir wailed, then gained control of himself with a few deep gulps of air.

For a few moments, the air grew heavy with silence. Faramir sat on his bed, stroking and cradling Cal's head, as Boromir stood awkwardly aside with his thumbs looped through his belt. "Why the cherry laurel?" he asked.

"In case," Faramir replied. He needed say no more: in case the worst should happen, he needed mercy at the ready. Boromir could think of nothing further to say. He waited quietly as his muscle cramped, trying to entertain himself by watching the shadows lengthen. The whimpering wolf went on whining and whimpering, until at last, not long after nightfall, Faramir's attentions could not cease the wolf's cries. He unwound the bandage. The skin beneath was enflamed and laced with darkness. Faramir shook. "I cannot let you endure this," he whispered. "Forgive me, Cal. Oh, Eomer, Eowyn, forgive me…"

He brewed a tea of cherry laurel and gently eased the brew into the wolf's mouth. Drops trickled away from that maw and little was completely swallowed, but in time Cal's eyes closed and she ceased her whining. Faramir bit his wobbling lip as he stripped the bed and wrapped Cal in the sheets until she seemed only a mound of soiled laundry.

Relief coursed through Boromir. At last, a situation in which he knew how to behave. Not a full second passed before he felt guilty to be glad of his brother's wretchedness. He sat beside Faramir and took his brother in his arms. Faramir grabbed his brother's arm and hung on tightly, biting his lip hard enough to drew blood. He shivered. "Easy, Little Bear. She can't feel any pain now. It is all for the best." Boromir muttered as many empty platitudes as he could recall, knowing calming lay not in the words but in the voice speaking them.

This knowledge proved itself accurate, nearly, as Faramir's shivers reduced and he gradually loosened his grip on Boromir's arm. He was preparing a swift expression of gratitude when footsteps rang in the corridor without. "No," Faramir whimpered, "not now, please!" But Boromir was powerless to stop his father striding into the chamber, demanding, "What is this I hear of my second-born returning without so much courtesy as to greet his father and lord?"

Denethor, cruel a blow as his words were to Faramir's shaken mind, acted not out of malice. Rather, he was hurt. His son had been home more than half a day, and had not come to him. The pain of this rejection had festered throughout the afternoon, lingering long after the disappointment at Faramir's lack of manners and respect. Now his anger erupted to conceal his pain. Always, always the boy rejected his father!

When Faramir only stared, glassy-eyed, Denethor demanded, "Well? What have you to say for yourself, Faramir?" Boromir tightened his grip, reasserting his presence. "Do not seek to hide behind your brother. You will answer to me!"

Faramir burst into tears. He had been pushed too far already. His first day in Gondor in four years, and already his wolf was killed by the one person he counted as an ally. Now his father was furious, and everything proved too much. Why had he ever left Rohan?

"Fara, shh, don't cry," Boromir consoled futilely.

"Faramir--" Denethor began, taking a step forward, but Faramir cried out, "No! Please do not strike me, please, I can stop…" He sniffled and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his wrists, to no available. In truth, Denethor had intended to offer his son what poor comfort he could. He was no beast, to smack a crying child! Uncomfortable as he was around the emotional boy, Denethor knew that no amount of violence offered consolation.

"Perhaps you should go," Boromir suggested, as his brother continued to bawl. Denethor took this advice and disappeared. "Fara, he didn't know."

"He frightens me, after all that," Faramir moaned. "I am frightened of him! Please don't let him harm me, Boromir, I am sorry and I hardly understand… I can stop weeping, truly…" He felt idiotic saying these things, howling like a child.

"Hush, fool, and weep all you like." Taking this invitation, Faramir turned to curl against Boromir, muffling his sobs against his brother's shoulder as he whimpered the tale: how he had come by the wolf pups and taken responsibility for them, how Eowyn had taken to them like an eagle to flight, how confused Lark and Cal had been when Faramir rode away from Rohan, how they had run between him and the children until at last the wolves were rent one from the other, Lark to remain with Eomer and Eowyn to guard them. Perhaps, Faramir, considered, Cal should have stayed in Rohan, also. He had been a damned fool indeed to bring a piece of Rohan into Gondor. Of course stones blocked out the sun.

Throughout all of this Boromir held tightly to Faramir, cooing sympathetically at all the right moments and promising that, Valar only knowing how, all would be well in the end. He managed to ignore Faramir's mumbled comment that he was brother to a spiteful liar. The most hurtful thing Faramir whimpered was, softly and pitiably, "I want to go home."

It was early morning by the time the boys crept back into Boromir's bedchamber. Once Faramir had calmed, they had borne away the wolf's body and burned it. A long while Faramir had waited, until the last of the ashes danced away on a fair wind. Then, shivering from cold, he followed his brother back inside.

For some hours they simply rested and gained news of one another. Faramir found, to his surprise, that he could recall few specific moments of his time in Rohan. He tried to offer feelings and sensations to his brother, but in the end both satisfied themselves with vague recollections: Faramir teasing the wolf pups, wrestling with them; Faramir and Theodred riding out together; Eomer and Eowyn, sorrowful little strays who grew fond of Faramir before he abandoned them. Boromir knew more specific moments of his past. None had been overly pleasant, and all were stamped in burning ink on his mind. "I had thought," he recalled, "that your presence would heal all wounds."

"I'm sorry."

"No, Little Bear, I am. You work no miracles. But I _am_ glad to have you home again."

"Thank you." Faramir sighed, then said, "I missed you, but I never wanted to return. I came only because I am duty-bound."

Boromir knew not what to say. He loved Gondor. He would die for her. "Duty is often a fair guide."

"It was when I played myself at chess. I only played the light pieces out of duty, but they won the board."

"What a good son of Gondor."

Faramir whimpered, and fell silent.

Later that morning, the boys led a quiet raid on the kitchens and quietly broke their fasts. Faramir was more famished than he had suspected, having skipped supper after a full day of riding and heavy emotions. He felt yet empty to think of Cal, but not crippled. "Will you be all right if I leave you now?" Boromir asked. He, too, had played hooky of late, shirking the practice yards to comfort his little brother. Ooh, but how good a sword would feel! Boromir understood swords.

"I'll be fine," Faramir promised. Alone, he stretched his legs out before him and slumped his shoulders, resting gladly against a low wall. Staring out at the deepening sky, he felt care and weariness fly from his mind and body. _This_ was home, Faramir realized, no place but a feeling inside of him. Thus he had never left, never returned, merely moved his body like a pawn in chess.

"Faramir."

Faramir scrambled to his feet, his peace fading swiftly in the face of humiliation as he stood before his father, a half-eaten apple in one hand. At least he no longer felt fear. "Father. Good morrow."

He expected Denethor to begin a discussion of the previous night's events, as Theoden would have, recounting and explaining his own actions. Rather, Denethor said, "Welcome home, Son."

_How are we to learn, then, without reflection? Father, do not do that, do not curse us so, please!_ Even as he thought it, Faramir understood. Denethor was perhaps ashamed, perhaps afraid, something of his inability to act appropriately and especially his inability to comprehend. He would pretend the previous night had never occurred, act as though Faramir had arrived just that morning. "Thank you, Father. I have missed Gondor."

Faramir justified himself with a rhetorical question: _Would I deprive an old man of his walking-stick?_ At the same moment, he accepted that he did not accept his father's reactionary politics. He only awaited a time when his cautious progressive policies might be put into play. Boromir would inherit, and writhe, and always there would be Faramir, whispering in his ear.

"Forgive that I cannot remain and gossip, perhaps later… In the moment there is a petition needing my attention, proposing lowering age of acceptance into the army…"

Faramir smiled. That would please Eomer, if he accepted Faramir's proffered hospitality. "Surely we will talk when time allows." He knew time would never allow. Knowing made him smile.

_I'm back._

The End


End file.
